Not Your Savior
by astropixie
Summary: Young and helpless, old and bitter. Neither Harry Potter seems a likely savior. AU sixth year
1. Betrayal and Visits

**Title: **Not Your Savior

**Author:** astropixie

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter does not belong to me. I wish it did. Oh well.

**Full summary: **At sixteen, Harry made a terrible mistake that will cost him for the rest of his life. His new necromancer teacher saves him, giving him new abilities and a strange new appearance in the process. Over the course of three years, the war with Voldemort progresses and the Order of the Phoenix is losing. Even their most powerful Auror, Harry Potter, cannot stop the newly-immortal Dark Lord. Nineteen-year-old Harry decides to return to a time when he could. His sixteen-year-old self must take his place in the grim future. AU, time travel, themes of suicide/depression.

**A/N:** This is my first HP fanfic. I usually dwell in the sci-fi realm. Thus, I like the idea of alternate realities and time travel. It's my thing.

I really disliked HBP, so I'm kind of ignoring everything that happened in it and starting off right after OotP. I will use some things from the sixth book, but not often. For one thing, I despise Harry/Ginny. (Actually, I just despise romance). For another, it needed way more angst after the events of the fifth book. Whatever happened to continuity?

I recently edited much of this, because I started writing Not Your Savior in high school, and after several college English classes my writing has blossomed into something less sucktastic than before. This first chapter is short, but most are around 8 to 12 pages. Please enjoy and review.

* * *

**1. Betrayal and Visits**

Harry Potter's sixteenth birthday was coming up in two days. Never had he looked forward to it less.

He wasn't even at the Dursleys', his typical summer haunt at Dumbledore's request. He was with his friends at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. And all he could do was hide in Sirius's room, snooping the corners for anything that could bring him back, until guilt at going through his godfather's things forced him back to the harsh-backed wooden chair in the musty corner. Guilt consumed him, irradiated him, poisoned him. Many times, he thought he wanted to die.

Everyone else did. First his parents, then Cedric, and now the only adult who had ever cared about him like a son that he could view like a father was gone. Everyone always died for him.

_I'm not worth dying for_, Harry thought. _I can't kill Voldemort. I can't come close. I'm not their savior._

"Harry?"

Harry turned around in his seat to see Albus Dumbledore standing in the threshold. He straightened.

"Sir?" Harry said quietly.

Dumbledore entered the room—Sirius's room—slowly, the floorboards creaking as he stepped over to Harry's chair.

"I thought I would find you here," the old wizard said. "Molly is quite upset that you've missed two meals today."

Harry shrugged in response.

Dumbledore seated himself on Sirius's old bed, the springs protesting with "ping, poing" snapping noises as he did. "Well, I'll leave you to your quiet afternoon in a moment, but I wanted to discuss something with you."

Harry waited for him to continue.

"I wish for you to have private lessons," Dumbledore said.

"Not Occlumency?" Harry asked, horrified. Those lessons hadn't gone well.

"Possibly," Dumbledore admitted. "However, these lessons will be more general, with a focus on dueling."

There was a long pause. "You want me to be trained so I can kill Voldemort," Harry said quietly.

"Yes."

Harry sighed and looked away. That was all Dumbledore wanted. He wanted to use Harry as a weapon. _I'm not your savior_, Harry thought bitterly.

Instead of saying this aloud, he asked, "Who's going to teach me? You?"

Dumbledore shook his head, and his customary tall wizard's hat drooped slightly. "I want you to be instructed by the best."

"Aren't…aren't you the best, sir?" Harry asked, confused.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled slightly at this. "As flattering as it is to hear you say that, Harry, I must shelve my ego for a moment and admit that I am not."

"Okay," Harry said, still confused. "So who is?"

"A former student of mine," Dumbledore answered vaguely, and Harry knew no straight answers were coming. "He memorized the entire Hogwarts library by the time he was thirteen years old. I daresay his knowledge of magic far outstrips that of anyone else alive."

"Sounds like someone Hermione should meet," Harry muttered. Dumbledore smiled.

"I'm sure you two will get along just fine as well," he said, standing up to leave. "You have much in common."

Dumbledore walked toward the door, and then paused. "You should get some fresh air, Harry. This room is stuffy."

Harry stared, and Dumbledore reached the door. It was halfway open when a loud wind and stomping noise filled the room. Both wizards, young and old, whirled in their spots to view the source.

A wizard with untamed black hair and eerie silver eyes stood in the middle of the room, clutching a fist to his chest. He looked up from the ground and a small smile lit his familiar face. Haunted silver eyes met shadowed green ones.

"Hello, Harry," Harry Potter said.


	2. Silver and Green

A/N: This chapter begins with the Harry who just appeared in Sirius's room. I know I just changed the order of the story, so if it's confusing, please drop a PM or review. Thanks!

**2. Silver and Green**

Harry Potter narrowed his gleaming silver eyes in hatred of the wizard before him. Voldemort was laughing at him. The high, cold tones ripped through Harry's skin, chilled his bones and fried his nerves. He had heard that laugh too many times in his short lifetime.

"Avada Kedavra," Harry said quietly. Hatred would do him no good. Hatred only clouded his mind, and made his reaction time slower.

Voldemort sent the jet of green light back to Harry with an outstretched palm, snakelike eyes still smiling. Harry dodged, tossing himself to the ground and standing up after a messy roll. Shea would be ashamed of his lack of grace.

Shea. Harry's tiny necromancer mentor was unconscious, chained to the altar in the center of the stone chamber. Blood trickled down his face from a gash across his forehead. He looked even more pale than normal. Harry had to get to him, they had to Apparate out of this nightmare….

He ran, knowing that fighting Voldemort was useless. He was immortal now. There was simply no point.

"You are so predictable, Potter," Voldemort hissed, appearing ahead of him. Harry performed a flip over his head and landed, running, before a spell knocked him over. He hit the floor and was about to roll out of the fall again when a second spell pounded into his back, keeping him pinned.

"You don't have any actual goals in life, do you, my young foe?" Voldemort asked, almost as if he were a concerned teacher. Harry felt a rib crack as his torso was pressed into the ground. "You just live to kill me and my followers. Pathetic," Voldemort whispered the last word.

Harry ignored the words and the physical pain, concentrating on sending a magical shockwave through Voldemort's body using necromancy. The Dark wizard shrieked and fell back, his spell forgotten, and Harry sprang up to continue running.

"You can't stop me, Potter!" Voldemort appeared in front of the altar again, blocking Harry from reaching Shea. "I have achieved my goal! Oh yes…and now, it is time for you to give up on yours…"

Harry raised his wand and opened his mouth to fire the killing curse again, even in vain, but his wand was carried away to Voldemort's waiting hand before the words escaped. Voldemort began to laugh again. Harry was about to try a wandless spell when he found himself flying through the air. He landed roughly on the stone alter next to his mentor, his breath escaping in a heavy "oomph!"

"Avada-" Voldemort started to shout. But Harry Summoned his wand and grabbed Shea's arm before Disapparating to safety.

Harry Apparated into the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. He looked down to his hand, clasping…nothing. Shea wasn't there.

Anti-apparition charm, Harry thought to himself in a rising panic. He had left Shea behind by accident. How could he have forgotten to check for that?

"Harry!" Hermione's shrill voice reached his sensitive ears. "You shouldn't have stayed there! You should have retreated with us-"

She stopped speaking as Harry turned to face her, looking livid.

"You left us," he said in a deadly calm voice. It was not a question or even an accusation. It was a statement of fact. Hermione's expression changed from one of worry to fear.

"Well, yes," she said quietly. "Harry, it was bad, we couldn't-"

"Don't talk to me," Harry snapped, uncharacteristically angry. He had done away with extreme emotions long ago, and outbursts were rare. He dropped into a chair by the table and buried his face in his hands.

"Is Harry back yet?" Lupin's voice came from the threshold. Harry heard Hermione's retreating footsteps and the brush of Lupin's robes on the floor as he came closer.

Neither spoke for several tense moments. Finally, Lupin sat down across from him and broke the silence.

"Everyone did all that they could, Harry. Including you."

Harry looked up, silver eyes glistening. "You always say that," he said softly. "And yet nothing ever changes. We never win."

"No," Lupin admitted. "But we haven't lost yet, either."

"We will," Harry said.

"You don't know that-"

"I do," Harry interrupted. His tone left no room for argument. "I can't kill someone who has achieved immortality. All we can do is kill his followers, but they just keep coming. He's already in control of all of Britain, and he's spreading. The next great plague," Harry finished his rant, but more remained unsaid, souring inside him.

Lupin was quiet.

"Why did you leave us?" Harry asked suddenly. Lupin shifted in his seat

"We were overrun, Harry. There was no way to win that fight."

Harry searched his former professor's gaze. After a moment, he nodded, satisfied.

"I don't think I need to go back for him," Harry said, calmer now. "He's powerful enough to get out of this mess."

"I agree," Lupin said, thankful Harry wasn't about to embark on another suicidal mission. "We should call the Order for a meeting on what to do next. If we can't destroy him, we can at least slow him down."

Harry stared into space, not listening to the werewolf. There was a way to accomplish his goal.

Voldemort was right. He needed to accomplish his goal.

He stood up abruptly, not bothering to look at Lupin again as he sprinted to his room. The pain in his ribs, forgotten in the pain of the moment, returned and went ignored again. He locked his door, sealing it with a charm, and rummaged through his desk for parchment and a quill.

Harry scribbled down a hasty note to Lupin and the rest of the Order members, and then focused on other matters. He was going to attempt a spell that Shea had mentioned to him once and he had read about, fascinated. After the destruction of most of the Time Turners in existence in his fifth year, the subject of alternate methods of time travel had been on many minds.

Harry had never been into the scientific aspects of magic like his teacher, but Shea had managed to engrain an appreciation for them nonetheless. Harry struggled to remember the bits about physics and time as he pulled a dusty book off of the shelf.

"Harry?" Lupin's worried tones sounded from behind the door. "Harry, what's going on? You know you can talk to me at any time."

Harry smiled grimly at his former professor's appropriate use of words. "Yes, I expect I'll be doing that," he said aloud as he found the page he was looking for.

"What was that? What are you talking about?" Lupin's muffled voice demanded. The doorknob rattled. "Harry, let me in!"

Harry didn't bother to respond. He was beginning the spell and too deep in thought to be bothered. This would be the first time he had attempted the complex spell, but after years of instruction with Shea, he was a pro at casting new spells correctly on the first time. According to the little necromancer, spell work is like music, and learning new spells is like sight-reading. The more you do, the better you become.

Harry had done a lot and was one of the best. He concentrated now.

How many times in the past few years had he desperately wished he could turn back time? Too many, Harry thought to himself. Sirius's death. Neville's death. Arthur Weasley's death. Snape's death. His own attempted suicide….

Harry wondered how much of that could actually be changed. What could be changed, and how would it affect things? On the grand scale, did any of it matter when it came to accomplishing his one goal?

Harry thought carefully and quickly. Coming to a decision, he thought of the time he needed to visit in order to make the best possible changes. He drew his wand and lightly tapped a stray button lying on the desk.

"Portus preteritus portinus," he said firmly, keeping his destination in mind. The button glowed blue for a moment before returning to its normal appearance.

"Harry! What are you doing? Did you make a Portkey?" Lupin's voice was growing more frantic and angry.

"I left you a note on the desk," Harry said in response. He touched the button and disappeared.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

_A wizard with untamed black hair and eerie silver eyes stood in the middle of the room, clutching a fist to his chest. He looked up from the ground and a small smile lit his familiar face. Haunted silver eyes met shadowed green ones._

"_Hello, Harry," Harry Potter said._

Harry's wand, always at the ready these days, was out and pointed toward…the person who looked like him… in an instant.

He was about an inch taller than Harry was, clad in simple black robes. His eyes were a freakish silver, shining from his face and devoid of emotion. Beyond that, he was identical to Harry.

"Harry, you're pointing your wand at yourself. Please stop," the other said calmly.

"What's going on? Who are you?" Harry demanded. His wand did not waver.

"Yes, those are very good questions indeed," Dumbledore mused, closing the door and turning back into Sirius's room. His twinkling blue eyes scanned the newcomer cautiously.

The Harry look-alike paused and looked at the ground for a moment. "This is going to be difficult to explain," he said.

"Well, start or I'll hex you," Harry spat. He didn't like this situation. What if it was another trick of the mind? What if he was finally going mad? What if this guy was a Death Eater with slightly ineffective Polyjuice potion?

The other "Harry" quirked an eyebrow. "Very well. My name is Harry James Potter. I'm nineteen years old and currently working as an Auror. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic or silly, I am from the future." He fixed Harry with a silvery stare. "Will you put that thing down now?"

"Interesting claims," Dumbledore said, gliding over to the older Harry and inspecting his face. "Tell me, Harry, who is your least favourite Hogwarts professor?"

He grimaced. "Either Snape or Umbridge. It's a tie."

The younger Harry waved his wand irritably, and red sparks shot out the end. "Loads of people know that!" he spat.

Dumbledore nodded. "Perhaps they do. Who is your favourite, then?"

The silver-eyed Harry thought for a moment. "Another tie. Lupin or Quin." He paused. "When you made Shea a professor, that is."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Your new instructor," Dumbledore supplied, voice breathy. "Put your wand away, Harry." He placed his hands on the other Harry's shoulders, still looking into his face. "This man is definitely you. He still cannot master Occlumency."

Harry scowled and tucked his wand back into his pocket.

"Harry's first question is still unanswered, Harry," Dumbledore said in a casual tone as he released the nineteen-year-old. It was as if he dealt with time travelers and multiple copies of the same person every day. "What is going on?"

"That's the part that's hard to explain," the older Harry said, displaying awkwardness for the first time.

"Why don't you start with why you are here?" Dumbledore prompted gently. Harry stared, shivering as his older self began to speak.

"Things are bad three years from now. Voldemort is now immortal. I don't know how he did it, Hermione and a few other Order members have been researching possible spells for months now, but we're not finding anything. So I can't kill him," Harry said in an expressionless tone. "He's been gaining more and more followers. He took out the Ministry of Magic last year, and his influence is spreading around the world. We're losing.

"I'm here because I am powerful enough to kill him, but three years too late. So I've come back to a time when I can kill him." The older Harry looked too determined for a nineteen-year-old. He was downright scary.

The younger Harry thought furiously. A possibility had occurred to him. "Couldn't you have gone back to about a month ago-?"

"I considered it," the older one admitted, voice low. "Sirius was the only father figure I've ever had—well, you know that," he said sheepishly. "But-"

"But what?" Harry interrupted, desperate now. "You could bring him back, you could stop me—us—from going-"

"I put a lot of thought into this, Harry," the other Harry said. "I want to save Sirius, but it's not what is best."

Harry gaped at this pronouncement. He was contemplating suicide after this last blow of Sirius's death. How could this future version of himself possibly believe that Sirius's death was for the best?

Seeing his younger self's disbelief and outright shock, the silver-eyed Harry asked, "Remember what our greatest weapon against Voldemort is?"

Harry looked away in mild fury. "Love," he said.

The older Harry nodded. "I've faced him about eight times in the past two years, and the only reason I can fight him is because of that memory of losing Sirius. Remember how he couldn't be in your body when he tried to possess you? It's the same thing."

Harry could not be mollified. "So being a weapon is more important to you than Sirius's life?"

His older self winced slightly. But only for a moment, and only slightly. "Yes," he said.

Harry shook his head, backing away. "Then you're not me at all."

"No," the other agreed. "I'm not. And I don't want you to be like me, which is another reason why I came to this time."

Harry swallowed. What did that mean?

"How did you come here?" Dumbledore asked. Harry started; he had almost forgotten that he was in the room.

"A modified Portkey spell," silver-eyed Harry answered. "I started in this very room, three years in the future, and charmed this button-" he held it up "-to transport me to the same place in a different time. I had hoped to come out at this exact spot, so I guess it worked fairly well."

"Interesting," Dumbledore mused. "May I ask what your plan is?"

Harry hesitated. "Well, I'm not actually sure it's going to work-"

"Great," green-eyed Harry said sardonically.

"-but I want to trade places with my younger counterpart, so I can make the necessary changes to the timeline," Harry finished.

"What?" the younger Harry said.

"Why wouldn't it work?" Dumbledore asked, pointedly ignoring the younger Harry's comments.

"It's not like a Time Turner. If it were, then I would remember seeing my older self when I was sixteen," Harry explained. "I think what I'm doing is creating alternate universes. Or timelines. Something like that." He turned back to Harry. "So when you take my place in the future-"

"If I take your place," Harry said.

"Things will either be the same as when I left, or Voldemort will be dead and it worked. I'm not sure," older Harry finished. "But the future as I left it needs a Harry Potter, nineteen or sixteen, it doesn't matter. And this timeline probably can't handle two of us. So-"

"So you want me to leave this time and take your place in the future," younger Harry said, not enthused about the idea. He was still hoping this was all some strange dream.

His older self nodded, black locks falling into his bright eyes.

Harry sat down heavily. This was too much to handle. He didn't like his future. He didn't want to become a heartless freak. But if he skipped the next three years, would things be better or worse for him?

"Why are your eyes silver?" Harry asked, stalling for time and somewhat curious about the matter.

Older Harry averted his gaze, as if he were self-conscious about his eyes. "I tried what you were thinking about before Dumbledore walked in. It didn't work."

Dumbledore stiffened. "What's this, Harry? Either one of you can answer," he added.

"I tried to commit suicide the day before my sixteenth birthday," the older one responded coolly. "Shea saved me by transferring some of his powers to me, and I've looked like this ever since."

Dumbledore was silent. Both Harrys watched in shock as the old eyes welled up with tears.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said.

"So that's another reason why I came to this time," silver-eyed Harry said, ignoring the apology. "I don't want my younger self to do that. Necromancer powers are more trouble than helpful, and people are always afraid of me. Life became worse after I tried to end it."

Harry sat still, feeling dizzy. He didn't want anyone to know about his suicidal thoughts, least of all Dumbledore. He was kind of glad to hear that it didn't work, however. Somehow, it took away the pressure of deciding whether or not to go through with it, if he already knew the outcome.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Dumbledore repeated, looking back and forth between them.

Harry took a hint from his older self and did not respond. He wasn't ready for an apology, or pity, or anything. He just wished that no one knew.

The three wizards were silent for a long moment as each turned to their own thoughts.

"Remus is waiting for me," the older Harry said suddenly.

"Is he? How?" the younger Harry asked.

"Well, I think the same amount of time that passes here passes in the future," Harry explained. "So I've been gone for about five minutes, and Remus is probably panicking."

"You didn't tell him what you were doing?" Dumbledore asked, somewhat amused even if he still looked stricken. Harry felt a sick sensation of satisfaction at causing the old wizard pain. He did his best to quell the feeling, disgusted with himself.

"No, he would have stopped me," older Harry said.

An awful thought occurred to sixteen-year-old Harry at the mention of the Order member. "How many more people have died?" he asked.

"Too many," was the response.

The two Harrys and Dumbledore were silent for a few moments more. Dumbledore was the first to speak.

"I think you should exchange places, Harry," he said. He smiled. "Or, if you prefer, exchange times. I believe I can trust you to make the right decisions," he finished, looking over at the older Harry, who nodded gratefully.

"I think it's the only way," silver-eyed Harry said, voice soft.

Harry was starting to agree. "But you said it might not work," he pointed out.

"Right. Because if we are making multiple timelines, then the one that I come from is still bad," his older self said. "But at least one won't have Voldemort in it anymore," he finished darkly.

Harry looked at himself in a mixture of awe and pity. With hardened features and emotionless eyes, he was every inch the hero and savior everyone expected him to be. But that was all his older self cared about. Being the savior. Doing his duty. Saving the world from the Dark Lord. The nineteen-year-old was shaped by the die cast by the wizarding world. And he was terrifying in more ways than one.

But what was he? He was just in the way. He couldn't destroy Voldemort right now. Familiar feelings of being a useless burden rather than the child savior began to overtake him again. He was useless here, and he was certain to be even more useless in the future, when everyone was probably used to him being an all-powerful Auror…

"But what if it doesn't work in the future that you come from?" Harry asked slowly. "What if you only succeed here? I mean, if you can't kill him, what am I supposed to do?"

The silver eyes clouded for a moment. Harry's older self approached him, looking down from his inch of greater height.

"You're more powerful than you think, Harry," he said seriously. "Don't doubt yourself."

"It just sounds like I'm going to be trying to fill some larger shoes than usual," Harry said, embarrassed.

"You've taken Voldemort on alone more times than most of the Order, and you're only sixteen. You'll be fine," the older Harry said.

"I don't think so."

"Well, excuse me for thinking highly of myself," silver-eyed Harry said, smiling.

Harry sighed. This was still too weird. Yet it seemed right.

"What can I do?" Harry asked, resigned. He would do his job. Even if he wasn't really the one doing it…his head began to pound in a mixture of confusion about time travel and nerves.

"Thanks, Harry," Harry said quietly. "You can touch this button. When you get there, tell Remus to calm down and read the note on the desk."

"Right," Harry said.

"You can trust Remus and Shea with anything," his future self added. "They'll watch out for you. And do me a favor and watch out for them, too."

"I will," Harry said. He reached out to take the button. He stopped, his hand halfway there.

"Will I return here any time soon?" he asked.

"I don't know," the older Harry answered truthfully. Their eyes met again, and understanding flashed between them. Harry nodded.

"Good luck, Harry," Dumbledore said. His eyes were twinkling again.

Harry nodded again, took a deep breath, and accepted the button from his future self.

The room blurred in and out of focus as if covered in a blue fog for a moment. Then all was normal, except Dumbledore and his strange future self were gone.

For a moment, Harry wondered if it really had been a strange dream as he looked around the familiar, unchanged surroundings. Then-

"Harry! Harry, are you in there? Open the door!" Lupin's frantic yells sounded from outside the closed door.

_No such luck_, Harry thought grimly. He walked to the door and opened it.

"About time!" Lupin shouted at him. "What were you thinking? What were you…"

Lupin's rant drifted off as he looked into Harry's green eyes.

"Oh gods, what did he do?" Lupin whispered.


	3. Maturity

**3. Maturity **

Harry's heart wrenched as he saw Lupin's face, now heavily lined with three more years of stress and troubles, pale in astonishment at his arrival. The werewolf's eyes stared into his brilliant green ones, disbelieving.

Harry now knew how showing up in a different time must have been like for his silver-eyed counterpart. So far, he had only seen one person that he knew in this alternate timeline, but one familiar face was enough. Things had changed. The Lupin of the past was ragged and drawn, but this one looked nothing short of desperate.

_I guess it didn't work_, Harry thought to himself, feeling miserable. This time was how the silver-eyed Harry had described it. Things were bad. They were losing. Voldemort was still alive.

And how was he going to explain all of this? His older self had vanished for a few minutes, and a younger version had taken his place. It wasn't exactly normal, and it probably wasn't going to help this Order of the Phoenix out too much. Harry knew his older self's powers were probably far greater than his own, what with the necromancer abilities, whatever those were. This timeline got the raw end of the deal in every way imaginable.

"Er, hi Remus," Harry said awkwardly.

Lupin strode forward, backing Harry into Sirius's room once again. He closed the door gently, as if trying to create silence in order to make up for his noise earlier, before speaking.

"He performed the time travel Portkey spell, didn't he?" Lupin asked, voice low and breathy. Harry wished he would stop staring at his eyes. Eventually he couldn't handle it anymore and looked away.

"Yes, and I took his place," Harry said. Then he remembered something. "My older self said to tell you to calm down, and to read the note on the desk."

Lupin stared for a moment more, then tore his gaze away to grasp a note from the desk. Harry joined him, watching as he unfolded the parchment to reveal a messily written letter:

_To Remus,_

_I'm sorry I didn't tell you what I was doing, but you would have tried to stop me and I can't have that. This is the only way.  
_

_I have gone back three years in time to kill Voldemort at a time when it was still possible. I hope that you never read this, because if you are it means that things didn't go as I had planned. The Portkey spell may have created two separate timelines. I'm sorry if that's what happened. But I had to try this.  
_

_I have sent my sixteen-year-old self to your time to take my place while I take his. Please respect him as an adult, don't think of him as a child. I want him to take my place in the Order, age rule or not. Remember, he's the same person as me.  
_

_Please rescue Shea for me if he does not return in three days. He's a friend. I know many in the Order don't care about him as a person, but tell them this: Voldemort will use him if he can't escape, and that will not be good for anybody.  
_

_Don't stop fighting him, even if we're losing-_

Harry wasn't done reading when Lupin crumpled the note up in a shaking hand. The werewolf looked down at him, and Harry fidgeted.

"This is all very confusing," Lupin said simply. Harry nodded in agreement. "And it didn't work."

"So what do we do now?" Harry asked.

Lupin hesitated, staring at Harry once again. "Your eyes may be the most obvious thing that has changed, but your voice is the most striking. The older Harry's voice is always soft. Soft and deadly. You're not quite there yet."

Harry was silent, unsure of how to respond to this. Lupin must have noticed his awkwardness, for he went back to the conversation at hand.

"We continue as if nothing has changed," he said.

"Because nothing has changed, really," Harry said.

Lupin smiled for the first time. "Yes, that's what the note said. You're the same person, just younger."

"Does that mean I'm in the Order?" Harry asked. Lupin frowned.

"We'll have to discuss that with the rest of the Order members, Harry," he said. "I think I trust the other Harry's judgment on this, but others will not."

"Why not?" Harry said, angry that they wouldn't trust either version of him.

Lupin sighed and turned away. Harry paused, worried that he had upset him somehow.

"You have to understand that the older Harry is the most powerful Auror—at least, he was the most powerful Auror while the Ministry still existed to hire Aurors. In fact, he's simply the most powerful wizard alive, except for Voldemort," Lupin said slowly. "When he gained some of Shea's abilities, he became…something truly terrifying. We thought our victory was assured the time he defeated Dumbledore in a sparring duel."

"I—He—can beat Dumbledore?" Harry repeated, shocked.

"When he was seventeen, yes," Lupin nodded. "But that's the thing, you're not him, even if he thinks you are." Lupin stopped to massage his forehead. "This is too confusing."

"But what does that have to do with anything?" Harry asked.

"We didn't allow the other Harry to be in the Order until his seventeenth birthday," Lupin said. "And even that was seriously stretching our rules."

"But I want to help," Harry insisted. "I mean, I don't want it to seem like you've lost an Order member, because he changed places with himself!"

"I understand that," Lupin said gently. "I just said that the others might not."

Harry went silent. Here he was, already acting like a child while he was trying to convince someone that he was mature.

"We should call a meeting and explain the situation," Lupin said, breaking the sudden silence between them. Harry nodded, and the two of them went downstairs to the kitchen.

* * *

Harry watched himself disappear in a glowing blue light. He hoped that he was doing the right thing. If not, he could always return using the same spell, but there was something finite about watching his younger self fade away three years into the future.

The room was silent now, except for the familiar creaking of the old house. Harry turned to Dumbledore, looking at the wizard that he hadn't seen in two years. Dumbledore's death had hit him hard. To see him alive and well again was almost overpowering. He started to wonder what it would be like to see Sirius again, but stomped these thoughts out of his head before they took hold. He knew it was for the best that Sirius remain dead.

"What will you do now, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. His blue eyes, so shocked at the arrival of a second Harry, then hurt and stricken after finding out that he had contemplated and attempted suicide, were twinkling behind his half-moon glasses like usual again. Harry had always associated that twinkle with a combination of mischief and knowing too much.

Harry clasped his hands behind his back and paced the room, thinking for a moment. He hadn't really considered his plans after the task of getting to the past time. Now he was capable of killing the Dark Lord, but how would he go about doing it?

"I think I'll pretend to be sixteen, at least for a while," Harry said, facing the older wizard again. "I wonder, though, if I can join the Order of the Phoenix in this time and take part in the fight?"

Dumbledore took a seat on the bed as he considered this. "You said you are an Auror?"

"The Ministry hired me straight out of Hogwarts," Harry affirmed. Then his shoulders slumped a little. "Not that the Ministry exists anymore."

"What happened?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward.

Harry sighed heavily, the memories of yet another bitter defeat taking over. "Last year, it looked like we were making some progress in the fight. The Ministry was finally starting to take action, so Voldemort decided to destroy it."

"Destroy it how?"

"Blowing the underground complex up using a spell of his own invention and killing most of the workers within it during the day," Harry said impassively. Arthur Weasley and Alastor Moody had died that day.

"I see," Dumbledore said, staring at some random spot on the wall. "Tell me, what did he do after that?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Did he take over England? Did he have any form of organized power put in place?" Dumbledore clarified.

Harry shook his head. That was a puzzle that the Order of his time had been pondering ever since that blow. "No. He continued on as if everything was normal. The rest of the Order thinks this is because he just enjoys terrorizing people in a small group."

Dumbledore's all-seeing eyes met his own. "And what do you think, Harry?"

"I think he knows that an organized government is easier to take down from the outside or collapse on its own from the inside."

Harry watched as Dumbledore's bright gaze slipped to the ground, the same stricken look as earlier taking hold. Harry wondered if he had said something to upset him.

"You've grown up," Dumbledore said simply.

Harry paused, waiting for the old headmaster to say more. Nothing more was coming. "I suppose I have, yes."

"I am sorry that things have never worked out very well for you, Harry," Dumbledore said sadly. "I am, after all, responsible for most of it."

Harry wasn't about to deny this, but he didn't want to outright agree, either. He opted for silence. Dumbledore seemed to take this as a sign to continue the earlier conversation.

"How many people are you going to tell the truth?" Dumbledore asked. "The Order will not allow a sixteen-year-old to join. You know that, I'm sure."

"That's a good point," Harry admitted. Then he remembered the circumstances under which he had been allowed to join the first time around, in the future. "What if I could show them that I'm a powerful asset, even at sixteen?"

"How would you do that?" Dumbledore asked.

"Duel with someone, perhaps," Harry suggested. He couldn't contain a small smile. "Or I could duel the whole Order at once."

Dumbledore's beard twitched. "You're rather confident in your old age."

Harry inclined his head.

"I take it you took lessons from Shea?" Dumbledore asked, interested in how the future played out.

"I did. He's the best teacher I've ever had," Harry said. "He still teaches me, actually. I've only beaten him in a duel once, and we practice often."

"I see," Dumbledore said. "So what are you going to tell everyone about your new eye colour?"

"I was thinking we could tell them the truth, to an extent," Harry said. He had thought about this part. "That I tried to kill myself, and Shea saved me. In the process, some of his abilities were transferred to me."

Dumbledore was silent. "Why did you do that, Harry?"

Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet. "I'll tell you when I tell everyone else."

"Fair enough," Dumbledore said. "There is, however, a slight glitch in your plan. Shea isn't due to arrive until tomorrow."

"That's fine," Harry told him. "I can disguise myself until then."

"Well, if you can do that, you can disguise yourself indefinitely," Dumbledore suggested.

"I could," Harry agreed. "But this was actually a good thing to happen, from Voldemort's point of view. He underestimated me the next time we met, because I had a lot of health problems for about a year."

"Okay," Dumbledore agreed. "It sounds like you plan on telling Shea everything, as well, if he is to be included in this plot."

Harry nodded. "He'll pick up on my powers the moment he sees me, there's no point trying to hide the full truth from him. Plus, I'd like to continue my lessons from where I actually am, not from where I was as a sixteen-year-old."

"Very well," Dumbledore said. He stood up. "Is that everything, then?"

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Everything, sir?"

"The arrangements for your plans for now, Harry."

"I suppose so, yes."

"Then you may want to don your disguise now, for we will be going downstairs to face the group," Dumbledore said, opening the door.

"Right," Harry said. He produced a case for contacts from his pocket, and Dumbledore chuckled.

"Somehow, I thought you were referring to a magical disguise, Harry," he said.

"Muggle methods work just fine for many things," Harry said as he took his glasses off and tilted his head back to insert the green-coloured lenses. "These are the kind with coloured lenses only, not prescription. How do I look?"

Dumbledore's beard twitched again. "Fine, if you plan on dueling Voldemort this evening. You may want to change into Muggle clothing. We're on summer holiday, remember."

"Right," Harry said, somewhat embarrassed.

Dumbledore stood outside the door while Harry found some clothes to change into. When Harry left the room and closed the door behind him, the headmaster said, "You should try and look more depressed or angry. That's all we've seen of Harry for the past few days."

Harry felt a fleeting pang at these words as he remembered one of the reasons he had come to this exact time. Suicide had not been a good idea.

"I'll try, sir."

Harry looked around in wonder as they descended the stairs to enter the kitchen. Everything was exactly the same as when he had left. The grimness of the walls, the dank character of the hallways…it was as if there was no passage of time at all. Right down to the portrait of Mrs. Black on the wall in the next hallway, which was now screaming at someone as they entered the house.

_"Filthy half-breeds! Dogs! Blood traitors! In my house! How dare you!_"

"This is getting old," Remus Lupin observed as he entered the kitchen. Dumbledore nodded for Harry to have a seat at the table. Harry did so, trying not to look like he was in shock, and more like he was angry or depressed. He wasn't a very good actor anymore. And right now all he could think of was how he had left Lupin with no explanation. Guilt twinged his stomach.

"How did it go, Remus?" Dumbledore asked as he poured himself a cup of tea from a pot on the table and his own conjured mug.

"Not well," Lupin said wearily. He accepted a mug from Dumbledore with a nod of thanks.

"Harry, dear!" Molly Weasley's voice filled the room as she entered to confront Harry. "You haven't eaten all day! Shall I fix something up for you?"

"Er, no thank you, Mrs. Weasley, I'm fine," Harry said quietly, thankful that so far the past was exactly as he remembered it. Instead of acting, he could simply quote himself from three years ago.

"Nonsense, Harry," she said, as he knew she would. Mrs. Weasley donned her apron and pulled out her wand, setting pots and pans on the kitchen stove. "I'll just start dinner for everyone, then. It's almost five now, isn't it?"

"On the dot, Molly," Lupin said, sipping his tea.

"Remus! I'm so glad you're safe!" Mrs. Weasley said. The she looked down at Harry and seemed to refrain from asking more questions. Harry knew that in the past he had asked what had happened, but he didn't now. He couldn't bear to make Mrs. Weasley cry again after the same conversation.

_My first change to the timeline_, he thought grimly. _Hopefully I can make a few more._


	4. Arrival of the Demon

**A/N: **Sorry it took me so long to update. I lead a busy life.

* * *

**4. Arrival of the Demon **

Harry didn't sleep well his first night in the past. He wasn't used to Ron's snores anymore. Sharing a room with him again after a few years was noisier than he remembered.

Harry arose early in the morning, after determining that he was not going to catch any more sleep. His wristwatch said it was eight, but the absence of light coming from underneath the grimy door told him that it was much earlier. He sat up in his bed and reached for his glasses on the nightstand, stopping midway when a jolt of pain shot through his ribs. He had completely forgotten about that injury, but there wasn't much he could do about it right now. And it didn't matter. It would heal on its own.

Harry dressed and glided out of the room in catlike silence to avoid waking Ron, as he was unsure of the exact time. He hadn't reset his watch upon arrival. He sighed softly as he caught sight of an ancient grandfather clock in the hallway below the darkened staircase. If that was right, it was only four in the morning.

The amount of sleep Harry managed to get wasn't too important anymore. He was used to catching one or two full nights of sleep per week, with the average night consisting of only two or three hours. His work in the Order kept him busy, possibly more so than everyone else. But to have the time to sleep and the inability to do so was still mildly disappointing for Harry.

He was almost to the kitchen to fix himself some tea when he heard low murmurs of conversation emerging from the room. Harry paused and hesitated just out of sight, completely silent and listening. It was Lupin and Dumbledore, and they were in deep conversation about something. He could feel the discontent within the room. He didn't remember this occurring in his own past, probably because he had been asleep. After a moment's internal debate, he decided that eavesdropping probably wasn't the best idea, and to this end he entered the room.

"I appreciate the offer, Remus, that's very generous of you, but I have my reasons," Dumbledore was saying. The old wizard looked up as Harry entered and quietly took a seat at the table. "Good morning, Harry. Whatever brings you down here at this horrible hour?"

"Couldn't sleep," Harry said, pouring himself a cup of tea. He stole a look at Lupin, wondering what he had interrupted. The werewolf was staring into his own mug, preoccupied with his thoughts. "And what about you, sir?"

"I'm just about to pick up your new teacher," Dumbledore said cheerily. Harry marveled at how the man's eyes maintained their blue sparkle all the time.

"And I'm still advising against bringing him here," Lupin said softly, looking up. His eyes held a quiet desperation. "Albus, you know what he is, you know who he worked for—"

Harry's cup almost fell from his hands as he registered what was going on. Lupin hadn't trusted Shea at first. His former teacher hid his emotions regarding others well, Harry mused. Most of the Order members were outwardly vicious to Shea in the beginning, and some still were, but Lupin had never taken part in that.

"I do know, Remus," Dumbledore said carefully. "It's possible that I know better than you do."

Lupin flushed slightly, chastised. But he continued, "I still think it's an unnecessary risk."

"You may think that," Dumbledore said, "but it won't change my decision."

Lupin shrugged and returned to his tea. Harry felt the awkwardness and resentment crackling in the air and decided to break the silence.

"Why are you picking him up at four in the morning, sir?" he asked solemnly.

"Because his plane is arriving just about now, Harry," Dumbledore said, standing up to leave. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

And he was gone. Lupin sighed and returned to his tea. Harry wanted to talk about this, but he knew he was going to stage his suicide today, and socializing wasn't a suicidal trait. He therefore drank his tea in silence.

* * *

"Absolutely not!"

Mrs. Weasley's fist connected with the table on her last shouted word for more emphasis, if the point wasn't clear enough already. Harry squirmed in his seat.

"He's sixteen years old!" she protested. "Not even out of Hogwarts yet! And you want him to take our Harry's place in the Order?"

The familiar table of Grimmauld Place's kitchen, covered in a few more years of grime than Harry remembered, was currently surrounded by a few members of the Order of the Phoenix. Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Fred and George Weasley, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, and the currently irate Mrs. Weasley were present. They had taken the situation surprisingly well, Harry thought. It was almost as if they were used to time travel and other strange phenomena. He was going to have to ask Lupin for a full description of the events of the past three years. But for now, he had other worries.

"Our Harry almost died today!" Mrs. Weasley shouted. "Even he can't handle You-Know-Who! I hate to send him into those situations, but he's the best we've got! And this younger version won't be able to take his place."

It stung Harry that Mrs. Weasley, the most maternal figure he had ever known, kept referring to his creepy older self as "our Harry." It was as if Harry didn't exist, or was an imposter—

_But I am_, he reminded himself._ I'm not the all-powerful wizard they're used to._

"Molly," Lupin said calmly while Mrs. Weasley stopped for breath, "The nineteen-year-old Harry believes his younger self to be valuable to the Order, even if he's not as powerful as he is. He's still Harry."

"But he's a child," she insisted. She looked directly at Harry for the first time, then looked away immediately with a sob, her shoulders heaving.

Harry wanted to say something in his defense, but thought better of it. He didn't want to make himself sound immature again, like he had done with Lupin earlier.

"I agree with Mrs. Weasley's judgment on this," Professor McGonagall spoke from the other end of the table. Harry's heart sank. "We didn't let the more experienced Harry in until he was at least seventeen. Sixteen is far too young. And we cannot have Harry Potter get himself killed trying to do something that he isn't capable of."

"I don't know," Hermione piped up for the first time. She looked at Harry uneasily. "It's not like he's any less experienced than the rest of us. Yes, it's dangerous for him, but it's dangerous for us too. It always is."

Hermione had changed, Harry thought with regret. Her hair, formerly bushy and full of life, hung drab and unkempt. A pair of tortoise-shell framed glasses graced her face now, and a strange scar ran down her cheek. Not that Harry was one to comment on strange scars…

"This is just weird," Ron said into the silence. At least Ron was the same. He stared at Harry now. "I mean, I look at you, and it's like seeing my best mate again."

"Ron," Hermione hissed.

Harry blinked, suddenly feeling very awkward. Ron wasn't his best friend in the future? Was that what he meant?

"I think Harry was always good at dealing with You-Know-Who," Ron finished lamely, his ears beginning to turn red.

" 'Always good at dealing with You-Know-Who?'" Mrs. Weasley quoted, her wind coming back. "How many times has he nearly died, or been captured and—" she broke off.

"And what?" Harry asked, curiosity overcoming his desire to remain quiet.

No one answered him. Harry felt even more confused than he had been before.

"Well, he seems to be Harry-like enough for me," Fred put in.

"Right, inquisitive chap as always, our Harry," George agreed. "I think he should be in the Order."

"After all, what are we going to do with him otherwise?" Fred asked. "Lock him upstairs and tell him to plug his ears?"

The imposing figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt stood up from his seat, leaning over the table to give Harry the most intimidating stare he had endured yet. "I have no problems with the younger Potter joining. So long as he can defend himself. _Expell_-"

"_Protego_!" Harry shouted, standing with his wand out and Shield Charm cast before Kingsley could finish.

Kingsley sat down, satisfied. "I have no problems," he repeated.

Harry took a few deep breaths and pocketed his wand slowly, reluctant to leave it without his fingers safely clutched around it. "Is that really all my future self is to you? A weapon?"

Everyone was silent, until Hermione spoke, her voice quiet and childlike.

"No, Harry," she said. "You're our friend. But you're also our weapon. You always have been."

* * *

Harry found himself becoming nervous as the hours crawled by, a rare event for him. The idea of reliving his suicide attempt, even staged and with Shea on hand if he was to actually succeed, was not appealing. He had his general plan in mind. He was going to inform Shea of the situation, then go to Sirius's room and lightly slit his wrist, just like he had the first time around. If things went the same way as they had in the past, Mrs. Weasley would be the one to find him—her sobs of grief and terror that he had heard the moment after revival were some of the reasons he was feeling nervous. It had been horrible to go through once, let alone twice, with full knowledge of what would happen.

It was now nine in the morning, and the kitchen was full of Harry's friends. Guilt crept into the edges of his mind. He had been so stupid at sixteen. He looked around at all the people around him, enjoying a hearty breakfast cooked by Mrs. Weasley. Ron and his brothers were chatting animatedly, while Hermione and Ginny were discussing something more serious. Even a few Order members were present, such as Lupin, Tonks, and Moody. All of them cared about him as much as he cared about them.

He sat in silence, reveling in the feeling of camaraderie in a time were things were not as desperate as they were to become. The fair mood in the room evaporated too soon.

The door to Grimmauld Place opened and shut, and the portrait of Mrs. Black, so mercifully quiet for the morning, began to shriek more loudly and more terribly than ever before. Her words ran together incoherently, until all that could be heard were plain screams.

_Shea's here_, Harry mused to himself. He looked up from his plate of toast to stare at the entranceway to the kitchen. Most of the room was doing the same. While they were all used to the painting by now, it had been a particularly violent outburst.

Dumbledore entered first, his tall wizard's hat scraping some dust from the top of the door. His beard twitched as he looked around at all the staring faces in the suddenly silent kitchen.

"Good morning," he said cheerily. "I see you've made kippers, Molly, I'd be delighted to join you for breakfast."

Harry felt the tension in the room relax, then return in full force as a stranger appeared next to Dumbledore.

He was broken, Harry thought in sympathy and shock as he watched his "new" private dueling instructor. He had forgotten what a wreck he was when he first came to Grimmauld Place. Already a head shorter than Harry, Shea Quin stood in a cowering manner to make himself even smaller, radiating fear of the wizards in front of him. His pale, gleaming silver gaze flicked around as if looking for possible exits. And behind him, his long, pointed tail flicked nervously from side to side.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, noting the change in the atmosphere. "This is Shea Quin. He will be staying with us for the summer. Why don't you sit down for breakfast, Shea?"

Shea made no response beyond a quick, shy nod.

And that was all Dumbledore said on the matter. He sat down next to Harry and helped himself to the plate of kippers, munching contentedly on a piece of toast. Shea sat across from the two of them, silent and apprehensive.

It was hard for Harry to see Shea like this. Shea had just come out of therapy for suicidal behavior himself, Harry remembered. To return to the country and people that had made him so miserable for the first half of his life must have been one of the hardest things he had ever done. His fist clenched as he thought of all the prejudice based upon old stories that faced him while he was with the Order. It wasn't fair.

_Well, this time he won't think I tried to kill myself because I met him_, Harry thought. _This time, he'll know he has a friend._

The silence of the entire kitchen, save for Dumbledore's chewing, continued for another few seconds until Moody harshly broke it. "Why did you bring that thing here, Albus?"

Shea winced as if he had been slapped and stared at the table, dark brown locks falling into his metallic eyes. Dumbledore gently set his toast down and fixed Moody with an icy blue stare over his glasses.

"I would appreciate it if you could show some courtesy toward guests, Alastor," he said softly.

"Guests and monsters are two different things in my book," he continued in his growl of a voice, magical eye glaring back at Dumbledore.

"Monsters and friends are two different things in my book, as well," Dumbledore said.

Harry tried to catch Shea's eye, and succeeded when the necromancer looked up from the table in confusion. Harry knew from long experience that Shea's empathic abilities were so sensitive that they were often overwhelming. Shea was sensing Harry's sympathy and odd aura of power… the necromancer's own power. Their eyes met for a moment.

"And friends don't join the enemy's side in a time of war," Moody breathed, standing up slowly. "Because that makes them enemies, doesn't it, Albus?"

"Please sit down, Alastor," Dumbledore said patiently.

"I won't share a table with this filth," Moody said adamantly, limping out of the kitchen.

Everyone stared after him except for Dumbledore, who was back to his kippers, and Shea, who was staring at the table again. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and all the adults excused themselves and hurriedly followed Moody out of the room.

Harry took an angry bite of toast, which was now cold after the long period of awkward silence. Across from him, Shea finally found the courage to speak.

"Albus, maybe I should go," he said softly. Harry started; he had forgotten that Shea had once possessed an American accent after living abroad for twenty years.

"I need you, Shea," Dumbledore told him as he buttered another piece of toast. "They will all accept you in time."

Shea seemed too upset to argue the point. He sat in silence once more, eyes occasionally flicking to Harry and back to the table. Dumbledore daintily wiped his mouth with a napkin conjured from thin air once he finished his meal and looked at Harry and Shea.

"Why don't you two get to know each other?" Dumbledore suggested, a twinkle in his eyes. Student and teacher stood up at the same time, both loaded springs from the tension of the table. Harry could also sense Shea's burning curiosity about his aura and odd feelings toward him.

"Okay," Harry said simply. "We can go to the drawing room."

Shea nodded and followed him, looking slightly lost and intimidated by the house. Mrs. Black let out another shrill scream as they passed before dissolving into sobs. Harry ignored her and led his instructor to the somewhat-recently-cleaned drawing room. He cast a Silencing charm on the door after closing it firmly and fastening the lock with another spell. They could not be overheard.

"You know me somehow," Shea said the moment Harry turned to face him. "And you're not a normal wizard. Nor are you an upcoming sixth year."

"All correct," Harry said, smiling. "I figured you would know in about two seconds."

"Okay," Shea said, still confused. "So what's going on?"

Harry noted how his shyness disappeared in the presence of a friendly person. A person whom Shea knew would not hurt him. It made Harry sick to think about what had happened to the little necromancer.

Harry sat down on a leather chair, releasing a puff of dust from the cushion to the air as he did. "It's complicated…" he said, and explained the whole situation.

Shea stood staring with those piercing silver eyes the whole time, his tail hanging motionless as he listened in awe. When Harry finished, Shea's mouth opened and closed a few times before he could find something to say in response.

"That is complicated," he said finally.

"You trust me on all of this, right?" Harry verified.

Shea tentatively stepped closer to him. It pained Harry to see and sense Shea's obvious fear of him. It hadn't been so apparent in the past, when Harry lacked Shea's empathic abilities. Harry's sense of others' emotions was not as overpowering as Shea's, but it was still present and sometimes helpful. Now was one of those "not helpful" times. Harry was used to sharing a special bond with Shea, an understanding. Shea was Harry's best friend as well as a mentor. Starting from scratch was both exasperating and sad.

"I think so," Shea said softly. "It makes sense. Well, sort of."

"Okay," Harry said, relieved. He had hoped Shea would go with this easily.

"Why did you tell me all of this?" Shea asked, tilting his head to the side.

Another pang. Harry sighed and decided to divulge the future some more. "In the future, I trust you more than anyone else. You're my best friend."

Shea blinked in amazement. "Really?"

Harry smiled at his innocence. "Really. Besides that, you pretty much figured me out after looking at me once in the kitchen. It was going to be a task hiding from you. And I didn't see the point in hiding from you."

Shea nodded, eyes now shyly fixed upon the floor. "Can you-can you really kill him?" he changed the subject.

Harry nodded impassively. "I've hit him with the killing curse before. It didn't do anything, but I can hit him."

"And I taught you how?" Shea asked, looking up and meeting his gaze again.

"You did," Harry confirmed.

Shea bit his lip and looked at the floor again. "I feel kind of sick," he said weakly.

Harry sighed. Shea, the most powerful being he had ever met, the most capable person with or without a wand in a duel, the man, no, the child with more of an excuse than anyone Harry knew to be bitter and vengeful, was hopelessly pacifistic. He was absolutely incapable of hurting another living creature unless he himself was being threatened. Harry had watched his teacher cry for hours, and sometimes resort to cutting his own skin after cursing Death Eaters in battle. And he never killed. Shea had always taught him to fight very reluctantly, because he knew his teachings would one day lead to murder.

Harry sometimes wished that he could remain so sympathetic and innocent.

Harry let him feel sick for a moment before charging ahead with his plan to stage his own suicide. Shea didn't look up until he was finished, and he agreed to the plan with a tiny nod. Harry couldn't blame him for being unenthused. He wasn't looking forward to it either.

Harry and Shea went back to the kitchen so that the others would see them, and not suspect Shea of hurting him, as they were bound to do. Then Shea stayed while Harry traveled silently up the rickety stairs to Sirius's room.

Harry seated himself cross-legged on the stained wooden floor of the darkened bedchamber. He took a few deep breaths as memories rushed into his mind's eye, then pushed them away. He didn't want to cut too deep, just enough to make it look good.

He conjured a knife. It was just a simple kitchen knife. He knew from watching and trying to stop Shea that razors actually worked best, but the knife would do well enough. Harry rolled up his Muggle shirt's sleeve and dragged the blade along his flesh. Sharp pain ignited along his wrist, but it was nothing compared to other pains that he had endured. He watched with mixed satisfaction and disgust as his blood, black against the white of his skin in the dark, trailed down his hand and dripped onto the floor, a single drop.

It wasn't enough to kill him, but that would be the assumption when someone found him. Harry lay down, curling up slightly, and closed his eyes.

* * *

A/N: Good? Bad? Awful? Should I stop?

Just to clarify, the older Harry is slightly empathic. In case that wasn't clear. I realised it wasn't too obvious as I reread it.

Feedback appreciated


	5. The Weapon

A/N: Check out my userpage for some fanart! Thanks for drawing, Eddy!

* * *

**5. The weapon**_  
_

_"You're our friend. But you're also our weapon. You always have been."_

Hermione's words rang in Harry's ears, echoing coldly in his mind. He was nothing but a murderer to these people. Their hope for the death of Voldemort, no matter what the cost to Harry would be.

How could his older self allow that to happen? Harry thought of the brief minutes he had spent with the nineteen-year-old version of himself. The cold silver eyes that held no emotion, even when the rest of the face was smiling. The rigid, controlled stance. The wariness and utter determination. The older Harry had no life beyond trying to kill someone.

The younger Harry wanted Voldemort dead as well, but he hadn't thought about how far he was willing to go to accomplish that. Obviously, he was willing to help out and travel to the future, but he hadn't turned into a fighting machine capable of nothing else. Yet.

Harry was saved the trouble of finding a response when the "pop" sound of a wizard Apparating reached the Order's ears. Harry fought the urge to jump up from his seat when he saw who the newcomer in the kitchen was.

"Draco," Lupin said quickly, as if eager for the distraction from the previous conversation. "What's going on?"

The blonde, now nineteen, handsome, and clad in the robes of a Death Eater, strode over to the table and shook his head wearily.

"Things have calmed down now. The Dark Lord doesn't have any plans at the moment beyond making potions," Malfoy said. His voice was different. The arrogant drawl was replaced with something more personable, yet dignified.

"Potions?" Ron asked.

"What for, Draco?" Hermione inquired.

"I'm not sure," Malfoy said, shaking his head again. "But he's using Quin's blood. It's something bad, he hasn't told me what, though. I suspect it's yet another pursuit of immortality."

"That would make sense," Lupin agreed, sighing. "Well, now we know why he captured Shea."

"Yes, we do," Malfoy said. His cool gaze had settled upon Harry. "What's going on here?"

Harry shifted in his seat. Draco Malfoy was in the Order? Possibly spying on Voldemort for it?

"Harry went back in time and sent his younger self to us to take his place," Hermione said in a small voice when no one else answered.

"Perfect," Malfoy said. Suddenly the drawl in his voice was back. "Now we're even worse off than before, right when the Dark Lord is adding another layer of invincibility."

"Draco…" Hermione said warningly.

"So what are you planning on doing with him?" Malfoy went on, ignoring her. He leaned forward, directly in Harry's face. "Train him up again? Hide him?"

"It's not my fault I'm here, okay?" Harry burst out. "Well, it is, sort of—"

"Shut up, Potter," Malfoy spat.

"Stop it!" Hermione shouted. "We're dealing with it, Draco! Go get some sleep or something, then—"

"Don't order me around, Hermione," Malfoy said slowly.

"She's right, Malfoy," McGonagall said sharply. "You have been up for two days straight, take some rest."

Malfoy inclined his head and left, robes billowing behind him.

"Malfoy is in the Order?" Harry asked blankly.

"He's our spy among the Death Eaters," Lupin explained.

"What about Snape?" Harry asked. No one answered him. Instead, they looked at each other awkwardly and avoided looking at him.

"Snape is dead," Lupin said after the long pause. Harry was suspicious about their behavior, but he let it lie.

"We need to move on to more important matters now," McGonagall said, adjusting her glasses. "We must get Quin out of You-Know-Who's hands."

"What about Harry, then?" Hermione asked.

McGonagall fixed him with a stern glare that hadn't changed at all. "I've changed my mind. He shall be admitted to the Order. We need all the help we can get and can't afford to stick to the old rules in such desperate times."

"Thank you," Harry said, relieved that he might be able to help after all.

She looked at him fixedly again. "Don't thank me, Potter. It's not going to be very pleasant for you."

Harry nodded uneasily.

"Right," McGonagall said briskly. "Granger, have you had any luck with your research?"

Hermione sighed and fiddled with her thick glasses. "Not really. I think it must be some sort of spell, but I have no idea what. I'm starting to think it was a spell of his own invention."

"If that's the case, we're going to have to think of another plan," Shacklebolt mused. "Can't provide a counterspell for something unknown."

"We still haven't found the other two Horcruxes," Hermione reminded him. "I'm sure when Shea gets back he might be able to tell us more about the spell, we might be able to figure out a counterspell in the meantime."

"Horcruxes?" Harry asked Lupin.

"Objects that Voldemort put pieces of his soul into," Lupin explained quietly as the others continued talking. "If his body is killed, parts of his soul remain intact, so he can never truly die. He used to have seven of them, he's down to three counting his physical body."

"He split his soul?"

"That doesn't surprise you, does it?"

Harry shook his head. "I guess not."

"…which brings us to the matter of rescuing Shea," McGonagall was saying. "Lupin, what do you think?"

"We need to get him back," Lupin said firmly. "Voldemort can't be allowed to use him. Who knows what he can do with his own, enslaved necromancer?"

"I agree," McGonagall said.

"I don't," Shacklebolt growled. "That—thing—should be able to get himself out of trouble. We already wasted time and effort, walking into that trap. Voldemort is probably expecting us to come for our necromancer, as well. It's just another ambush waiting to happen."

"He should be able to rescue himself, right?" Ron asked. "He's even better at dueling than Harry, after all. I mean, our Harry. I mean—" He cut off when Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.

"Shea doesn't fight to preserve his own life," Lupin said seriously. "He's not going to hurt anyone to save himself. We have to go get him."

"You know, I've never understood that," Fred said. "Why train your whole life to be unbeatable in a duel if you're going to lose on purpose every time you get into a duel?"

"He wasn't always like that," Lupin said quietly.

"Which is all very well, but what are we going to do about it?" McGonagall returned the group to the matter at hand. Harry got the impression that she was the leader in Dumbledore's absence, just like she was at school. He wondered where the old wizard was.

The Order members agreed that rescuing the mysterious Shea was the best course of action, if only to keep him out of Voldemort's experimental hands. Harry didn't really know who this Shea was beyond a few mentions of him by his older self, and he was starting to think he didn't want to know him. He seemed to be a matter of controversy.

The plan was made with minimal arguments. Ron and Hermione volunteered to go, and Lupin would accompany them. It was not to be an all-out attack, but rather a quick, hopefully quiet operation.

Harry didn't know whether to volunteer to go or not. He knew his older self would want him to. But would he be any help? Would it be like when he tried to rescue Sirius?

"I think Harry should come with us," Ron said, making Harry's decision for him.

"Why?" McGonagall asked.

"Well, Harry's pretty good at rescuing people," Ron vouched for him.

"Definitely," Hermione agreed.

Harry smiled. He could do this, he could help and be useful. "All right, then. I'll go with you."

* * *

Harry lost track of the time he spent lying on the floor pretending to be dead. His arm was aching, and his body was growing cold from loss of blood. He kept his eyes shut, reaching out and sensing that people were indeed nearby. They just hadn't opened the door to take a look inside.

Tired of waiting, he sent a subtle nudge to Mrs. Weasley's mind. A quiet compulsion to come check on Harry. It was a trick Shea had taught to him that was only possible with empathic powers. He could gently implant emotions into others, especially those without mental defenses like Occlumency.

The compulsion worked, for Harry heard her coming up the stairs, and felt the vibration of footsteps through the cold floor.

_Here we go_, Harry thought grimly.

The door creaked open. Mrs. Weasley screamed.

"Harry? Harry!" The panicked woman rushed to his side and shook him roughly, shrieking again presumably at the sight of a small pool of blood gathered around his wrist.

"Mum?" Ron's voice came. "What are you—bloody hell!"

Harry stopped his breathing. A hand checked for his pulse first at his uncut wrist, then at his neck. He had cast a spell to make his pulse unnoticeable, and it seemed to work.

"Harry, wake up!" Mrs. Weasley sobbed. "Why did you do this? Why won't you wake up?"

A third presence, Hermione, joined the group with a scream.

"No, no, no, no, no…" she chanted, kneeling next to Harry. Then—

"Wait!" Hermione said. "Shea can bring him back!"

"He can?" Ron said stupidly, presumably stricken by the sight in front of him.

"He's a necromancer, Ron, of course he can." Harry was proud of her suggesting the use of Shea's powers. He wondered if she had been the one to fetch Shea in his own timeline, as well.

A minute later, Shea was on the scene. Harry felt his torn emotions as he entered the room.

"Can you bring him back?" Hermione asked desperately. Mrs. Weasley was still sobbing horribly, and Ron was quiet. Lupin and Dumbledore were now outside of the room.

"I think so," Shea said, his voice quivering. "He's lost a lot of blood, though, we might just lose him again the moment he wakes up—"

Mrs. Weasley left his side. Harry guessed that she had launched herself at Shea. "You have to wake him up! He has to be alive! Please!"

Mrs. Weasley lost all coherence after that. Shea approached Harry slowly and knelt at his side.

"Can you resurrect him, Shea?" Dumbledore asked, his voice artfully grave. Harry sensed that the old man was slightly amused and slightly mortified at the same time. Dumbledore never ceased to confuse him.

Harry felt Shea's quivering fingers trace the cut on his wrist. The necromancer felt cold even to Harry's blood-deprived arm. "Yes, sir," Shea replied quietly. "But he'll need a blood-replenishing potion immediately."

"I'll send for Severus," the old wizard said. "He brews medical potions at his home."

Harry forced himself not to move as hot anger at the mention of "Severus" flooded his veins, as if in replacement for the blood. Anger at Snape and anger at himself…

Shea must have felt the sudden surge of anger, for his hand withdrew as if he had been burned. He probably had been, mentally. Harry quickly Occluded his mind as best as he could to avoid distracting Shea any more.

"What are you waiting for?" Ron demanded. "Bring him back!"

The room was now silent except for Mrs. Weasley's continued sobs. Shea positioned Harry's limbs so that he was on his back and straightened. Then he placed one shaking hand on Harry's forehead and the other on his stomach.

It occurred to Harry then how his friends had blatantly disregarded his wish to die. There was no mention of "maybe he wants to be dead, he just sliced his own wrist." There was only "raise the silly boy, quickly." He wasn't sure if he was glad to have such caring friends, or upset to have such unobservant friends. Either way, it didn't matter.

Harry had told Shea to make it look like he was raising him, and after a few moments Harry completed the illusion by opening his eyes. His silver eyes, for he had removed his contacts.

Several people gasped. Hermione was in his face, pelting him with worried gibberish. Mrs. Weasley gathered him up in her arms, now crying into his hair.

"What did you do to him?" Lupin demanded, grabbing Shea by his shirt collar and slamming him into the stained wall.

"I don't know," Shea whispered, eyes brimming with tears. "It's never happened before—"

Lupin gave the little necromancer a final shove into the wall before joining the strange huddle on the wooden floor. "Are you all right, Harry?"

Harry remembered Lupin asking him this his past. He remembered how he could barely see thanks to his new eyes, how his arm was aching, how his whole body was cold and stiff, and how angry he had been because his plan to kill himself hadn't worked. He remembered Lupin's as the most absurd question anyone had ever asked him.

"I'm fine," Harry said bitterly. He looked past Hermione's bushy hair at Shea, who was huddled against the wall like a dog who feared he was going to be kicked. No one had even thanked him.

"Why did you do that, Harry? Why?" Hermione asked, tears bright in her eyes.

Harry didn't answer. She didn't deserve an answer, really. Now that he thought about it, the fact that no one had considered his wishes was upsetting.

"Leave him alone, Hermione," Lupin said, more calm after taking his anger out on Shea.

The room was full of stifling tension for several minutes, until Snape arrived. Harry averted his gaze, Occluding his mind as thoroughly as possible. He could never fully Occlude as an empath. He had forgotten that Snape had been called to help…how was he going to hide his situation from a shrewd, always-suspicious Legilimens?

"The blood-replenishing potion," Snape said stiffly, taking in the scene with quick black eyes. He smirked coldly. "My, my, Potter. A new low."

"Now is not the time for taunting, Severus," Lupin snapped, grabbing the potion from the other's hands.

Harry stared fixedly at the floor as Snape tried to look into his "newly"-silver eyes. "Oh, but it is, Lupin. I see our new necromancer is a failure," Snape sneered, glaring at Shea.

As a single tear leaked onto Shea's cheek, Harry didn't feel so badly about killing Snape in his seventh year anymore.

"Drink this, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, taking the potion from Lupin and bringing it to Harry's lips. Harry's eyes were forced up for a fatal split second, and they met with Snape's cold black gaze.

The Potions Master's eyes narrowed, cool and calculating under knitted eyebrows. Harry kept his eyes on his potion to avoid looking at Snape again, but he knew the damage had been done. He was going to have to confront Snape to make sure the spy didn't do anything stupid.

When Harry had killed him it had been to avenge Dumbledore and the belief that Snape was really working for Voldemort…but afterward it had been discovered that Snape was no true Death Eater at all, he was merely protecting Draco from the wrath of the Dark Lord. Guilt had consumed Harry for months after he found this out. But he had no way of knowing how he kept his Dark Lord sated for information, how much of the Order's workings he betrayed in order to keep his spot in Voldemort's inner circle.

Yes, Snape would have to be dealt with.

Harry finished his bitter-tasting potion without complaint, still trying to avoid the stares of everyone in the room. Indeed, Shea had messed up in his timeline. The shy little necromancer had not raised anything for months, and this stored power had been released to Harry by accident. Plus, Shea had not raised any humans in years, so he had overcompensated. Necromancy, as Harry was learning, was more a precise science than a field of magic, and only with practice and frequent use can one with the power be any good at it.

The results of this mishap had been more of a curse than a blessing, although Dumbledore had been pleased with the change. Harry's striking green eyes were turned into the ghostly orbs of a necromancer, just like Shea's strange gaze. Colours were brighter, but he went blind on occasion. The feelings of others suddenly flooded into his mind, filling him with emotions that were not his own. He healed faster and took pain more easily. Regular food and sleep were not required for him to function anymore.

But the biggest change was the sudden rush of power. It filled his core, giving him strength. It ached to escape his body. This was not the normal magic he had come to know, this was the power of a necromancer. If he didn't use his new powers for too long, they would come out on their own, usually in a bad way at a bad time.

This was the part that Harry considered to be more of a curse than anything. He had to raise the dead every few weeks voluntarily, or else the dead might come to him. It was always horrific. It was a good thing that he didn't have to sleep as much anymore, because his sleep was always disturbed by nightmares. He could never get used to it.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, had been elated to find out that Harry was more powerful than the average wizard. Suddenly, the old man had a better chance at beating Voldemort at last. Harry had known that Dumbledore was using him, but he let it happen because they had a common goal. Now, even more aware of events, he wasn't sure how he felt about the strangely manipulative headmaster.

Dumbledore would have to be dealt with, as well.

"Are you feeling better, Harry dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a strange, high-pitched voice.

Harry didn't respond. That was another foolish question. How was he supposed to react to being alive after killing himself, anyway? He didn't remember the first time too clearly, probably because of the lack of blood. He opted for looking faint and closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to say anything, at least not yet.

And after his new appearance and behavior was no longer considered odd by the Order, he could go about his business. As an assassin.

* * *

A/N: That's all for now. Next chapter will be a lot more interesting.

Reviews are cool, you should leave a review if you read. Tell me if I suck. Au revior.


	6. Interrogations

**6. Interrogations **

The dungeon's cold floor was mostly covered in a puddle of stagnant water several inches deep, leaving a mere foot of dry stone in the corner for the lone occupant to sit on. The smallest sliver of light illuminated the corridor from the door at the end, enough to see glimmers on the water. Shea grimaced as his tail drifted too far, disturbing the puddle with a small splash before he could whisk it away.

Shea Quin hated water. It was cold and wet, the wet part often leading to the cold. When the Death Eaters had tossed him brutally into the cell, he had landed in the puddle. His clothes, already ripped and covered in his blood, had been soaked for the past day or so of his isolation. The damp cell stubbornly refused to let anything dry. He knew any magic he performed would be detected immediately, so he refrained from using wandless magic to warm himself up or dry his clothes. He was content in his cell, and didn't want to attract unwanted attention.

Shea didn't know why Voldemort was bothering with the isolation tactic. His former master knew him better than this. For Shea, loneliness was just another feature of life. He had been an outcast from the moment of his birth. Craving the company of others was a perfectly normal pastime for the broken-hearted necromancer.

And it wasn't like he was being deprived of food and water. He never ate. He didn't need water. The only thing he had found over the years that he could stomach was milk, but it wasn't necessary.

The darkness didn't bother him much, either. While he didn't need food to survive, he did need an influx of positive emotions from others. It was strange, but if he went too long in an environment of hatred, he would feel weak and his eyes would stop working, to be followed by his pointed ears. In a more pleasant environment, he would feel stronger, and his senses would be normal or enhanced. But this rarely happened, so Shea was quite used to being blind.

Indeed, Shea was capable of sitting curled up against the stone wall in his square foot of dry space indefinitely. And he knew that the Dark Lord knew this. So to pass the time, Shea set about to wondering what Voldemort was up to.

Shea's first thought was that he was being used as bait. He knew his student, Harry Potter, had a bad habit of trying to save people. But then, Harry would know that Shea was more than capable of escaping on his own. Then again, Harry would know that Shea would refuse to fight his way to escape. And Voldemort would know both these things as well, so using Shea as a lure was a gamble that probably wouldn't work too well.

Shea was fairly certain that he wasn't being kept there for interrogation purposes. He had already withstood days of the Cruciatus Curse along with other, more creative methods of torture. He was ready to face it again if need be. He would never rejoin Voldemort, not after what he did all those years ago. A spell of seclusion in a cell full of water wasn't likely to change that.

It was possible that Shea was just being held until the Dark Lord had another use for him. They had already chained him to an alter and taken liberal samples of his blood, probably for use in potion making. He shuddered to think of what could be made using blood as powerful as his in a potion. And it had been a while since he had raised anything; soon the Dark Lord wouldn't even have to torture him before he raised a field of zombies for Dark purposes.

It also occurred to Shea that Voldemort simply didn't know what to do with him. He had already taken his blood. Was that all the Dark Lord wanted? It was possible.

Shea's musings were interrupted when he sensed someone approaching. He concentrated. Three people, one of them very, very powerful. Great.

The door to the corridor opened for the first time in two days, flooding his weak eyes with too much light. He winced and brought a hand to his face to block it, but nothing could block out the cold, high-pitched voice.

"Are you still here, my necromancer?" Voldemort asked as he swept in front of the cell bars. Two masked Death Eaters accompanied him on either side. Shea felt like an animal in a cage, which was no doubt the Dark Lord's intent in putting him in such a holding cell. There were three walls of rock and one wall that was strong bars. The rest of the cells in the basement of Voldemort's castle and manor, Shea noted, were separated from the world by a thick metal door.

"I'm not your necromancer," Shea responded stiffly.

"Of course, of course," Voldemort said, red eyes gleaming as he smiled. "You belong to the Order of the Phoenix now. You are always welcome to return to me, you know."

Shea didn't respond to that. Voldemort laughed.

"Still not in a talkative mood, I see?" Voldemort's smile disappeared. Shea was glad of this; the smile made him look scarier. At least the angry expression looked more natural. "Bring him out, Lucius."

"Yes, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy said, a quiver in his voice as he opened the cell door to do his master's bidding.

"Are you afraid of little Shea?" Voldemort asked airily, also hearing the fear in his voice.

"No, never, my Lord," Malfoy asserted. Shea could sense otherwise. He was surprised that Malfoy had the nerve to lie to his master.

Draco's father was still a slave of the Dark Lord. Shea pitied the young spy for a moment before realizing his own situation was probably worse.

Shea allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. He also allowed the elder Malfoy to fasten a collar around his neck and chains around his wrists. Then he quietly followed Malfoy through the water and out of the cell.

"Docile little thing today, aren't you?" Voldemort commented, reaching out to gently stroke Shea's cheek with a long, pale finger. Shea flinched away, and Voldemort's sinister smile returned. "Perhaps we have made some progress, indeed."

Progress? Toward what? Shea wondered. Knowing that Voldemort was always one to explain his evil plans with relish, Shea asked.

"Toward breaking you, of course," Voldemort answered civilly. The Dark Lord sounded as if Shea had asked what time the cricket match started. "You will be mine again, necromancer. You will belong to me soon enough."

So Voldemort did have a use for him, Shea thought. That could not be good.

"Bring my necromancer to Bella's favourite room, and have Bella spend some…" Voldemort paused, caressing Shea's face again with his cold, pale hand. "Quality time with him."

"Yes, my Lord," Malfoy and the other Death Eater replied in unison. Malfoy roughly tugged on Shea's chains to get him moving.

"I wonder, though," Voldemort said lazily as the strange trio reached the door. "Why haven't you left yet, little one?"

Comprehension dawned upon Shea as the Dark Lord voiced this thought. He had no idea that Shea had gone pacifist. Shea had stopped using his magic to defend himself at the expense of others after his time with Voldemort, as a result of his actions. He wondered if telling Voldemort of this change in philosophy was to his advantage, and after a second of debate decided it was not. The less the enemy knew, the better.

"Tell me," Voldemort said, approaching him. Shea Occluded his mind, knowing it was a futile attempt but trying anyway. "Why haven't you merely blown a hole in the wall, or killed all of my Death Eaters with a thought? Why are you allowing yourself to be tortured every day?"

_No reason_, Shea thought frantically as Voldemort took his chin and forced his silver eyes to look into the red snakelike eyes. He knew his attempts to Occlude failed when Voldemort smiled coldly once again.

"My dear Shea," Voldemort said quietly. "You are much more brave than you used to be."

Shea blinked. That was not the response he expected.

"We'll have to change that," Voldemort sneered, releasing Shea's chin and pushing him away. "I won't have a useless necromancer. Continue, Lucius!"

The Death Eaters led him back up the winding torch-lit staircase and into one of the numerous torture chambers. Shea memorized the layout in case he did end up escaping. It was old habit to think that way. Malfoy locked him into place against the wall, and the two left without speaking. Shea felt their fear of him. For once, he wasn't too upset about people being afraid of him.

The minutes ticked by. Shea calmly waited for Bellatrix Lestrange to arrive. He could feel her presence right outside of the door, and knew that she was trying to make him nervous before her grand entrance by making him wait. His left shoulder was starting to hurt, as it had been injured earlier and didn't appreciate being stretched out by chains.

After a few more minutes of "suspenseful" waiting, Bellatrix entered, slamming the door behind her. The dim candles in the room faltered as the wind rushed by them. She approached Shea slowly, a tight grin that didn't reach her hooded eyes appearing on her pale face.

"My master says that you need to be taught your place, my little one," Bellatrix informed him.

Shea didn't answer. He felt more people beyond the door. Three nervous and determined people.

"Tut tut, little one," Bellatrix said, pulling her wand out. "I thought that I had taught you a few lessons by now. I guess we'll have to keep going. _Cru_-"

"_Stupefy_!" a familiar voice incanted. Bellatrix fell to the ground, revealing Order members Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger.

"Thanks," he told them as Hermione chanted off a spell to undo his bonds. He fell when he was suddenly deprived of support, and Harry stepped forward to catch him easily.

Harry. There was something horribly wrong with Harry. His power was depleted, and his emotions were more frantic than usual. Plus, he hadn't used magic to catch him, and Harry hated being touched. Shea looked up at him as he got to his feet and gasped.

His eyes no longer matched Shea's. They were back to being green.

"What's going-?" Shea began, but was cut off by Hermione.

"It's a long story, we'll explain later. Right now we have to get you out of here," the young witch told him tersely.

"Right," Shea said, still disconcerted by the change. "There's a passageway to the back grounds on the left if we go down this main staircase a few more levels, or a first-floor window two levels up."

"Oh, Shea," Hermione shook her head. "Why didn't you just escape on your own?"

"I might have had to hurt someone!" Shea said indignantly.

"Come off it," Ron snorted as he looked at Shea's bloodstained attire. "They certainly didn't mind hurting you!"

"Let's take the downstairs passageway," Harry suggested. "There's less of a chance that we'll run into someone that way."

"Good thinking," Hermione said. "Lead the way, Shea."

"I don't suppose we can get my wand before leaving?" Shea inquired in a small voice.

"Where is it?" Hermione asked.

Shea winced. "Voldemort's private chambers. Never mind, I'll just get a new one later."

"Thank you for not making us go there," Ron said earnestly. "Now, this may be a great place for discussion for you, but I don't like it that much. Let's get out of the torture chamber."

"On the contrary, Mr. Weasley, I think it's a great place for discussion," Lucius Malfoy's voice said from behind them. The group whirled around to see five Death Eaters standing in the doorway and on the stairway landing. He leveled his wand in the general direction of the Order members. "Let's talk."

* * *

"You know you can talk to me at any time," Lupin said for the umpteenth time that morning. The werewolf had been assigned "counseling" duty more or less by default, and Harry was starting to think he should let Lupin in on the plot, if only to stop him from wasting more of his time.

The werewolf's words were greeted with yet more silence. When Lupin reached out to take Harry's hand in what was intended to be a comforting gesture, Harry decided that enough was enough.

"I'm fine," he said shortly, whisking his hand away from the tabletop and drawing his wand. Lupin backed away and reached for his own wand apprehensively, but calmed down when Harry used it merely to cast a Silencing charm on the room.

"I probably should have trusted you from the beginning, but let me fill you in now," Harry said, and he informed Lupin of his situation and plot.

Lupin listened with a cool, collected expression. When Harry was finished, he said, "Harry, it's perfectly normal to…explain things with the extraordinary rather than facing the truth—"

"I'm not lying," Harry cut him off.

"He's not lying, Remus," Dumbledore's voice put in. Harry blinked and looked over his shoulder; the old Headmaster was standing calmly in the corner. How did he escape Harry's detection? "It is quite the story, yes, but all perfectly true. Harry is here, three years older and wiser, to vanquish Voldemort once and for all."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said quietly. He was still unnerved that Dumbledore could sneak up on him. "How did you get in here, sir?"

"Me? I have been standing here the whole time, Harry," the old wizard replied lightly. "I don't think you should take up a career in therapy anytime soon, Remus."

Lupin flushed slightly, but he was disconcerted by the news. "So our Harry is three years in the future right now?"

Harry felt slightly put out at the mention of "our Harry", but he let it slide. "Yes, the sixteen-year-old version of myself has taken my place, as I have taken his."

Lupin frowned. "Is he—is he still—"

"Suicidal?" Harry offered. "Probably. But I find that problems larger than one's own tend to take one's mind off of the smaller problems."

"What do you mean?" Lupin asked worriedly.

"I mean the future is not pleasant. He'll be keeping busy, hopefully enough so that he won't be thinking of how to do himself in," Harry said, feeling odd because he was talking about himself.

"So you're not really—"

"No," Harry said firmly. "I just had to stage all that to explain my powers and appearance."

Lupin buried his head in his hands. Dumbledore seated himself at the table and pulled a lemon drop out of his pocket to snack on. Harry calmly waited for more questions.

Lupin didn't disappoint. "What did Shea do to you?"

Harry sighed. This was getting old now. "He overcompensated. I wasn't dead for long, he hadn't raised anything in a long time, and he had forgotten how much power it takes to raise a human. All of these factors led him to use too much magic, and it just transferred to me."

When Lupin remained quiet, Harry added, "I would appreciate it if you didn't hurt him again. He's a little bit…" Harry considered, searching for the right word. "Fragile."

Lupin nodded, still in shock. Harry felt okay with putting his hands back on the tabletop, and so he did. "Well, if that's all," he said, "I'd like to move on to more important matters. I know the locations of three of Voldemort's Horcruxes, and we would do well to destroy them as soon as possible."

Dumbledore actually choked on his lemon drop in shock. When he had recovered, he gasped, "Why didn't you tell me of this immediately, Harry?"

"Had to get other things out of the way first," Harry explained.

"Horcruxes?" Lupin looked up, bewildered. "Aren't those—"

"He made six of them to store parts of his soul," Harry said briefly. "That way when I try to kill him, it doesn't work."

"One of them has already been destroyed," Dumbledore said. "The diary of Tom Riddle at the age of sixteen. Tell me, Harry, what of the three you know about?"

"They are the cup of Hufflepuff, the locket of Slytherin, and that ring that you're going to find in a few weeks," Harry said. He conjured a piece of parchment and wrote the locations on it magically. He gave the slip to Dumbledore, who took it with slightly trembling fingers. "I've charmed this parchment so that only you and select Order members can read it. To others it will just look like scrap," Harry explained.

Dumbledore read the list several times, memorizing each item before pocketing the parchment. "That leaves two more to find. Do you know about those?"

Harry shook his head regretfully, dark hair falling into his bright eyes. "We've been trying to find those for a year. Actually, one of them is the snake, Nagini, but Voldemort realized that we've been taking out his Horcruxes, and he hid her somewhere. Wait," Harry stood up suddenly to pace the small room. "She's not hidden right now. She's always at her master's side."

"You aren't going to charge into Voldemort's hideout to kill his snake, are you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

Harry considered, then sat down, feeling mildly foolish. "I'll kill her at the same time that I kill him," he decided aloud.

"Very good, Harry, but what is the seventh Horcrux?" Dumbledore pressed.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. He had expected Dumbledore to be enthusiastic about the knowledge of the Horcruxes, but he hadn't anticipated such a fixation upon the topic. The Headmaster was a manipulator, that was a fact. Harry had always suspected, upon hearing the prophecy, that Dumbledore only cared about Harry as far as Harry's usefulness. He was halfway tempted to keep his knowledge to himself because of all this, but for now their goals were identical. And it was Dumbledore who had told him everything in the first place, so….

"We're not sure," Harry said truthfully. "We think it's either something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's."

"To fit the pattern," Dumbledore mused. "Yes, I had suspected this as well."

Harry allowed himself a small smile. "Well, you did tell it to me first, sir."

"Did I?" Dumbledore asked airily. "What a clever wizard I am."

_Too clever_, Harry agreed mentally. He stood up again. "Is Snape still here?"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore corrected absently.

"Yes, him. Is he?"

"You can find him in the kitchen, I believe," Dumbledore said. "Molly is making spaghetti for lunch."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said. He smiled to himself again as he left the upstairs room to descend the stairway. He was about to give Professor Snape an assignment. The irony would have been great enough to make him laugh out loud, if only he laughed anymore.

The spicy smell of Mrs. Weasley's meatballs reached Harry's nose as he padded softly past the portrait of Mrs. Black to the kitchen. He sighed. He missed eating meat sometimes.

True to Dumbledore's prediction, the greasy-haired Potions Master was standing stiffly by the threshold, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to finish cooking the meal. It struck Harry as odd that Snape would actually eat at the Order headquarters for once, but then, Mrs. Weasley's dishes were irresistible.

Harry approached as quietly as he could, wanting to, for once in his life, surprise Snape instead of the other way around.

"Professor Snape," Harry said softly. Snape's head whirled too fast for him to have known that Harry was there, so he knew he had succeeded. He held a back a grim smile. "May I have a word?"

Snape looked down at him, an expression of disdain upon his sallow face. Harry could feel the curiosity battling the dislike of Harry in Snape's mind. No matter how well one could Occlude the mind, there was no defense against an empath. Similarly, as an empath, Harry couldn't block a Legilimens. He stared back unblinkingly, allowing the black eyes to grasp tantalizing images from his head.

"Make it quick, Potter," Snape said finally. "I don't have much time for suicides."

"Very well," Harry said, ignoring the bait. "Let's go somewhere more private, shall we?"

"Very well," Snape sneered, inclining his head slightly. "Lead the way, Potter."

Feeling an exasperated sense of déjà vu, Harry led Snape to the drawing room where he had explained everything to Shea.

"So, Mr. Potter," Snape said silkily as Harry shut and charmed the door, "Care to explain why you seem to be thinking of murdering me?"

_Not the best way to start the conversation_, Harry thought. Of all the things for Snape to have seen in his head already, that was probably the worst.

"Certainly, sir," Harry said easily. Snape didn't rattle him now as much as he used to. In fact, in some perverse way, Harry was having fun sparring with his former teacher. "I killed you a year and a half from now. But that's only because you killed Dumbledore, and I felt inclined to return the favor."

That wiped the characteristic smirk from Snape's face. With his audience blissfully silent, Harry explained the whole situation yet again.

"Completely idiotic as your story is," Snape said, affixing his sneer right back into place, "I can tell that you are telling the truth. You have such a worthless mind, Potter."

"So you tell me often," Harry said, smirking back. "I would think your vastly superior mind could come up with a different insult now and again."

Snape advanced upon him, trying to intimidate him with the height difference. Harry merely cocked an eyebrow at the other. "I am still your Professor, Potter, and as such—"

"I graduated two years ago," Harry interrupted.

Snape smiled coldly. "Not in this time, you didn't. Like I was saying, as such, you will show some respect."

"Of course, sir," Harry said, giving him a mock bow. "Now that you know all about me, we can move on to your assignment."

"My—" Snape tripped over the word a few times. "My what, Potter?"

"Your assignment. As in, your task as appointed by me for you to complete," Harry said smoothly, still bowing.

"Your insolence is astounding, Potter," Snape hissed.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said easily. He stood up straight again and watched with amusement as Snape's fingers curled and uncurled, ready to choke the nineteen-year-old. "Anyway, your assignment is simple. You will determine the object and location of Voldemort's seventh and final Horcrux. And then you will report these items to me."

Snape cocked his head slightly and fixed Harry with a calculating stare. "So you have been working to kill the Dark Lord for several years."

"I believe we have covered this, yes," Harry confirmed.

"It just surprises me that you know what you're doing, Potter," Snape sneered. It was the highest compliment Snape had ever given Harry. "But tell me, Potter, why should I do what you…assign?"

"I've killed you once, haven't I?" Harry asked with a smile.

"You're going to have to do better than that, Potter. I receive death threats from the Dark Lord five times a week."

"Yes, but few of them are as sincere as mine," Harry said, smile evaporating from his face. He let the memory of Snape's murder rise to the top of his thoughts again so that Snape may glimpse it.

Harry had won. Snape was floundering. He had lost control of the situation, and now genuine fear of the Boy Who Lived was entering his mind. Harry knew that it was one thing to be threatened with death, but it was quite another to know that it would happen.

Snape's shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, defeated. "I will do this, Potter, but not out of fear of you or as a favor to you in any way. I will do this because I want to see the Dark Lord dead."

"I don't care why you do it, just so long as you do it," Harry said in a low voice. "You're the only person in such a position to do this with any ease."

"Ease," Snape snorted. "Do you have any idea, Potter, any at all, of what will happen if I am—"

"Yes," Harry said simply. Snape stopped his rant at the single, sad word, and Harry continued on to the next topic at hand. "I must ask you not to go to Voldemort with any information about me, beyond the fact that I tried to kill myself, and now I'm having health problems."

"Becoming a necromancer is a health problem, is it?" Snape asked derisively. Even after such a huge blow to his ego as having a student appoint a task to him, Snape still managed to be a git.

"I'm mostly blind, Professor."

"How is that any different than before?"

"I also can't eat many foods anymore," Harry said sadly, ignoring the scathing comment. "Like the meatballs Mrs. Weasley is preparing right now. We should return to lunch. Remember, don't mention—"

"Your secrets are safe with me, Potter," Snape interrupted acidly.

"I hope so," Harry said softly. Then he smiled again. "Let's go get some spaghetti."

He turned to leave.

"You've become very Slytherin, Potter," Snape said, causing the younger wizard to stop in mid-stride. Snape smirked down at him before exiting the room first. "Take that as you will."


	7. Escape

**A/N:** Sorry this took me so long. It's not even a good update, it's a "Don't worry, I'm still alive!" update. I've been so busy lately, you're lucky to even get this, believe me.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I probably wouldn't bother updating if it wasn't for you.

* * *

** 7. Escape**

Death Eaters poured into the room, one after the other, each with his or her wand pointed at the quartet of Order members. Shea took a deep breath as Malfoy came closer, mentally cursing himself for endangering the lives of Harry, Ron, and Hermione with his own personal issues. He had to admit to himself that he honestly hadn't expected a rescue, but the fact remained that if he didn't feel so guilty about using his powers, he would have saved himself several days ago. And they wouldn't be in this mess right now.

His personal ban against hurting people did not extend to using his abilities to protect others, however. It looked like he was going to have to fight anyway.

"Well?" Malfoy asked, his voice quiet and deadly. "Give me a good reason why we shouldn't simply kill all of you right now? My master will be so pleased."

"Because your master won't be pleased, Malfoy," Hermione said defiantly. Her hand was shaking, and she gripped her wand tightly.

"The brat is right," another Death Eater, possibly Nott, said. "Potter and the necromancer are supposed to be for the Dark Lord to deal with alone."

They were surrounded now. Shea knew of a spell his could perform to deal with this, but he didn't want to do it…oh, how he didn't want to do it…

"What of Granger and Weasley, the golden couple of the Order?" Malfoy sneered. "Any reason to keep them alive?"

"Just get it over with, you great coward!" Hermione snapped. "All you can do is make idle threats, wondering how you can please your master best, you sick—"

"Language, Mudblood brat. Language," Malfoy said. Shea felt a surge of anger come from Malfoy, the same one necessary to work the Killing Curse. "Very well, then, there's not much of a reason to keep you around. _Avada_—"

"_Stupefy_!" Hermione shouted before Malfoy could finish. The older wizard conjured a shield and the spell bounced harmlessly away. The first spells exchanged, the room turned into a chaotic mess of light.

Shea hesitated for a moment, wandless and unsure. He watched as Harry, his private student for three years, missed his target of Malfoy. Harry missed. Harry's aim was perfect, there was something horribly wrong going on. If Harry had been himself, Shea would not have acted, but since that was not the case….

"_Circino accendo_," Shea thought to himself, roughly pushing Ron and Hermione to the ground and thrusting Harry on top of them with his tail. A blast of blue and white flame tore away from his body, over the forms of his rescuers, and into the surrounding Death Eaters. There was no defense against this spell; Shea was simply too quick and too powerful.

Some of the Death Eaters caught on fire, others were just knocked down. Malfoy's robes were alight in the magical flame, and the Dark wizard could not extinguish it with water from his wand. A few others shrieked and ran about aimlessly, rolling on the floor to try and put the unusually hot flames out. The scene would have been comical if the enemies were not literally burning alive.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron took the opportunity to Stun them all, one by one. Shea waved a hand around the room, and the blue flames went away. Then he started shaking.

"Good job, Shea," Hermione said tightly, standing up and gripping his arm. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Shea stared at what he had just done. The bodies around the torture chamber. All the bodies. "I just…I just…" he stuttered.

"You just saved us all, now come on," Ron said forcefully, leading the way out of the chamber and back to the winding staircase.

The odd quartet descended the stairs, wands at the ready. Ron took the lead while Hermione watched their backs, and Harry tended to Shea in the middle. The necromancer couldn't stop shivering, and the fact that Harry was holding onto his arm wasn't helping the issue. Ever since Bellatrix Lestrange had managed to break him last year through weeks of torture, Harry had loathed physical contact of any sort. He hadn't told anyone exactly what had happened, but it wasn't necessary. What mattered was how Harry had changed.

They made their way down, past the dungeons, and Shea nodded toward the little door in the wall. Hermione tapped the lock with a quick "Alohamora," followed by another spell when this didn't work. Voices started to echo down the stairs, no doubt belonging to angry Death Eaters, so Shea stepped forward. He waved a hand over the locked door, and there was a click from inside.

The group rushed inside the passage, closing the door as gently as possible. Once they were all in, Shea locked the door again with a similar wave of the hand. Then they ran.

* * *

"Why aren't you eating your meatballs, dear?"

Harry looked up to find Mrs. Weasley directly in his face, sauce-covered spoon in hand. He blinked. He knew from long experience that eating meat only led to problems for him, but in this timeline the others had known about his condition for only a day now. He certainly couldn't act like he knew all of the quirks of being part necromancer in so short of a time.

"I had some," Harry lied quickly.

Mrs. Weasley shook the spoon at him warningly, sending spatters of red sauce onto his cheek, which she cleaned off with her thumb. "Eat another one, Harry dear. You've been looking thin lately."

Harry sighed, knowing the only way she would leave him alone was to appease her. He stabbed a meatball with his fork, knowing what would happen once it entered his mouth. He would feel slightly nauseous for an hour or so, and then he would experience sharp pains all over his body, starting from his stomach. After throwing up for a few minutes, he would be able to function properly until he was laying in his bed for the night. There, the pains would return, sharper than before, leaving his body vulnerable to accidental magic on his part.

Oh well, he thought to himself as he chewed, allowing himself to savor the taste. They have to find out eventually.

* * *

The next day, when Harry had recovered, was the first day of lessons with Shea.

"I don't know what to teach you," the little necromancer said nervously, his tail flicking back and forth behind him. "I didn't know where to start before, and now you've been learning with me for three years, apparently…"

"Why don't we have a practice duel?" Harry suggested.

The two were in the drawing room, which was mostly clear of furniture and clutter. Shafts of morning light from the tall window fell across Shea's face, giving his eyes an eerie glow.

Shea nodded. "That's a good plan, I guess. All right. Well, let's bow…"

Harry bowed slightly, then fired the first curse. "_Expelliarmus_!"

"_Protego_!" Shea said quickly. Harry's curse flew in a different direction.

"_Reducto_!" Harry returned. Shea dodged easily, and Harry tried another curse. And another. Then a few more. Shea didn't cast a single spell until the end.

"_Circino accendo_," Shea said, not raising his wand.

A blast of flame rushed from the necromancer's body. Harry conjured a shield just in time, but this moment of distraction cost him as Shea said in a calm tone, "_Petrificus totalus_."

A moment later, Harry found himself staring at the water-stained ceiling, unable to move. He tried to cast the countercurse wandlessly and non-verbally, but Shea was stopping him somehow. He would have sighed if he wasn't cursed. Even rusty from being out of touch with wizards for twenty years, Shea was still unbeatable.

Shea's concerned, elfin face appeared in Harry's field of vision, blocking his view of the yellowed ceiling. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically as he waved his wand to undo the curse. "Did I hurt you? I figured you would block the fire okay and you did, but I didn't think you would fall so heavily, it sounded like you were hurt, I'm sorry."

Harry shook his head, bringing a hand to his forehead as the headache began. "I'm fine."

"Okay. I'm so sorry," Shea said again, wringing his hands awkwardly.

"Forget it," Harry said shortly. "I suggested the practice duel, remember?"

Shea seemed to ponder this for a moment, then shrug it off. "You're really good," he said, bending down to offer Harry a hand up. Harry eyed the proffered hand apprehensively and ignored it, pushing himself off the ground without help.

"Thanks," Harry said. He could sense that Shea was feeling slightly awkward about the moment, and he decided to explain.

"I'm sorry, but I don't like to be touched," Harry said as he brushed himself off.

"Oh," Shea said quietly. He blinked. "Why not?"

Harry's expression and mood must have darkened considerably, because Shea winced and looked away. Harry took a deep breath to calm his emotions, then said, "It's a long story. I guess you might as well know, it's important regarding my abilities."

"Okay," Shea said, sitting down on a dusty chair and looking expectantly at Harry, like a child about to be told a bedtime story.

Harry had forgotten just how childlike Shea was when he had first met the tiny necromancer. He had been molded by years of abuse and neglect when he really was a child, followed by years of loneliness and exile as an adult. He had next to no social skills, and fully expected people to hate him. He was too shy, too scared of the world. He didn't seem like the type to be able to fight twenty Death Eaters and Voldemort himself at once, but he was. All he had to do was read about a spell, and it was committed to memory and perfected. Shea was Hermione, only more powerful and even smarter. He was just too broken to realize it most of the time.

Harry shook himself from his musings and focused on his own story. "In the future, I'm not just targeted by Voldemort for the prophecy. I'm a pretty good Auror, and I've killed quite a few Death Eaters, and I've almost killed him once or twice. I'm dangerous to him, and he needs me to be dead."

"Well, that makes sense," Shea said absentmindedly.

Harry's face twitched in what was almost a smile. "I suppose it does. But last year he tried to turn me to his side again—"

"Wait, you joined him?" Shea interrupted, jumping in his seat.

"No," Harry said slowly. "I meant, he tried again to turn me. Not to turn me again."

"Oh," Shea said smally. "Sorry. Keep going."

_Copy editor_, Harry thought with a shake of his head before continuing. "He thought that I was becoming something like a Dark Wizard, just like him. And so he thought that I would be willing to join him to expand my powers, if I wasn't so keen on killing him."

"And he thought wrong?"

"Very wrong," Harry agreed. "He managed to capture me and make the offer, and when I refused, he didn't kill me. He…"

A few seconds ticked by while Harry struggled to come up with any words. "He what?" Shea asked softly.

"He tried to force me to join him," Harry said, recalling his worst nightmares. "Rather, Bellatrix did. I escaped eventually using a necromancy curse like the one you just used on me, only more powerful. Shea-I mean," Harry said, fumbling with the time difference, "You said it was because I was so near death, and I produced the blast almost unconsciously. And I cast the spell when she was about to touch me again."

Shea was a perfect audience, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide by the end of the story. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," Harry said. He could have said whose fault it really was, but he didn't want to incriminate anyone two years before they did anything wrong.

Silence hung thick in the musty air for a moment more before Shea jumped up and said, "So I guess I should probably teach you something."

"Right," Harry said, glad to get back to business.

"You have all the basics down, and a lot of more advanced things too," Shea mused, walking around and letting his tail drag on the floor. "And you fought me with a mix of wizardry and necromancy, that was interesting. Which one do you think is more useful in a duel?"

"Usually wizardry," Harry said. "It takes longer to focus energy for necromancy. It depends on if you want a spell to have a more powerful and lasting effect in a few seconds, or if you want a less powerful and shorter-term spell immediately."

Shea paused. "Did I tell you that?"

Harry smiled. "Actually, yes."

"This is too weird."

"I know, Shea. I still can't get used to your accent."

* * *

A/N: Well, that's all I've got. The plot will actually start moving soon. Really, it will. And Snape will be back, because people seem to like how I write him.

Reviews appreciated.


	8. Spying

**8. Spying**

Harry ran at a crouch to keep from hitting his head on the low rock ceiling of the tunnel. There was almost no light, save for the charmed torches glowing at distant intervals, glinting on the foot of muddy water that covered the ground. He grimaced as a spray from Hermione's quick feet splattered in his face as they half waded, half ran.

No one spoke. They had been running in the tunnel for half an hour now, and Harry was beginning to suspect that they were just going farther and farther underground.

"Wait a second," he said, stopping suddenly. Someone ran into him and fell into the sludge with a loud splash.

"Harry, don't stop in the middle of the hallway like a first year," Ron's voice grumbled in the dark.

"Boys!" Hermione whispered harshly from a few metres ahead. "We have to keep moving!"

"I don't think this tunnel goes anywhere good, Hermione," Harry whispered back.

"It's too wet," Shea's childlike tone agreed from behind Ron.

"You suggested it, Shea!" Hermione burst out.

"I just saw it earlier, I didn't know where it goes," Shea said apologetically. Their voices echoed down the tunnel for a moment, and the group hushed in fear that anyone heard.

"Can we Apparate from here?" Harry suggested softly. "Make a Portkey?"

"You can't Apparate or Disapparate from Voldemort's castle," Hermione said as if quoting a textbook, reminding Harry very much of her frequent quotes from _Hogwarts, a History_. "And the protections around this place don't allow for Portkeys to work, either."

"You guys didn't come with a way to get out?" Shea asked, a little bit late.

"Well, we weren't planning on getting caught up there," Hermione growled.

"Quiet!" Harry said suddenly.

The Order members went silent, leaning against the tunnel walls and listening for pursuing Death Eaters. A few seconds passed of silence save for their heavy breathing and the sound of water.

"It doesn't make sense that Voldemort would have a tunnel that leads to absolutely nowhere," Hermione said in a low voice after a moment. "There's even torches leading the way. No, we have to come out somewhere."

The other three agreed and continued to follow Hermione.

* * *

A week in the past went by quickly for Harry.

Things were so much more pleasant in the past. The atmosphere wasn't as grim. People were friendlier. Ron and Hermione weren't using every available moment to snog in a corner. Dumbledore and Snape were still alive. Shea actually smiled from time to time, if shyly. And best of all, Order members didn't treat Harry like the murderer he was. The past was like a vacation.

But he couldn't allow himself to enjoy it too much. He had a job to do. He had to kill Voldemort.

"_Caedes enecto_!" Harry shouted.

Shea absorbed the variant of Avada Kedevra with his hand, then shot it back. Harry conjured a shield just in time to avoid being lacerated to death, but he wasn't fast enough to block the next spell from his teacher.

As usual, the duel ended with Harry staring at the ceiling, completely motionless under _Petrificus Totalus_.

"_Finite Incantatem_," Shea said, and Harry sat up instantly.

"I don't like how you always use the Body-Bind curse to end duels," Harry said from the floor of the drawing room.

"Why not?" Shea asked. His tail dragged behind him as he paced in front of Harry.

"I know why you do it," Harry said. "It makes me think for a moment about where I messed up."

"It works, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Harry admitted. "But it's so simple. And you always get me with it."

"I'm sorry," Shea apologized.

Harry shook his head as he stood up. "You don't have to apologize for being a good teacher."

Shea blushed slightly, looking away. Harry stretched, then said, "Let's go again."

Shea looked down at his bare wrist. "Harry, we've been at this for five hours."

"I don't have anything better to do at the moment, do you?" Harry asked.

"I guess not," Shea mumbled, looking at his feet. Harry watched him for a moment, and felt his determination to practice ebb away, replaced with something else.

"Right," Harry said, walking over to Shea, who looked up at him questioningly. "No more dueling. I'm going to teach you instead."

"Teach me?" Shea cocked his head to the side. "Teach me what?"

It was hard for Harry to see his teacher like this, even more painfully shy than he was in the future, and with no will to back up his existence. In the future Shea was capable of refusing to do things; this past version had allowed Harry to use him as a sparring partner for five hours without complaint. It wasn't normal, and Harry was feeling guilty for being so obsessed with practicing when Shea hated fighting.

"I'm going to teach you how to say no," Harry said.

Shea blinked. "Okay."

"You're already doing very poorly with this lesson," Harry observed wryly.

"I'm sorry," Shea said automatically.

"Don't be sorry, be right."

Shea cocked his head. "That doesn't make sense at all. You can't be right all the time. Everyone makes mistakes. What can you do after you make one but apologize? I mean, you could avoid making the mistake ever again, which would be right, and you could try and correct the mistake, which would also be right, but in the meantime someone probably wants an apology."

Harry felt as if a snake had crawled down his throat and constricted around his heart. Mistakes. Apologies. Righteousness. It was all becoming so blurred. Shea's childlike babble reminded him way too much of his own mistakes.

"Dead people don't want apologies," Harry mumbled to himself.

"What was that?"

Harry looked up, startled from his own thoughts by Shea's confused voice.

"Nothing," Harry said, somewhat glad that Shea's hearing was even worse than his own. He mentally shook himself from his reverie. "Back to learning how to say no. Say no to me."

"No?" Shea said tentatively. Then, "Wait, someone's here…"

"I know! No!" Harry shouted.

"No!" Shea returned, slightly louder this time.

"Sorry to interrupt your horrendously inept lessons," Snape's entirely unapologetic voice cut into the room. Both necromancers looked around at him with mild expressions. "But I have returned with information that Mr. Potter will find most interesting."

"Did you find out what—?"

"I did not manage to find out what the Dark Lord's seventh Horcrux is, Potter," Snape spat before Harry could finish. "It will take even me months, perhaps years to learn that information. No, I found something else that you will find useful if you would stop interrupting me."

Harry crossed his arms and waited with a patient gaze. Snape's black eyes narrowed before he went on.

"It seems the Dark Lord is hiring. He's looking for a competent…" Snape paused, glancing at Shea with obvious distaste. "Necromancer."

"What for?" Harry asked.

"What is the only thing necromancers are good for, Potter?"

Harry gathered up some of his necromancy powers and let his eyes flash bright silver and white at Snape, who recoiled. "Lots of things, actually."

"If you prefer," Snape sneered, over his momentary shock. "As I was saying, the Dark Lord requires a being to raise many, many dead for him. Not just Inferi, he wants zombies under his control."

"He wants an army of the dead or something?" Harry asked.

"For once, you're right, Potter," Snape said dismissively.

Harry thought about this for a moment, ignoring Snape's provocation. He did recall a sudden rise in Inferi attacks in his own past, but these were all easily dealt with. Indeed, zombies would be a greater threat. A powerful necromancer could technically raise an entire army and control it. But depending on how freshly dead the corpses were, they would still retain the intelligence to be useful in a fight or a raid. Inferi were completely mindless and easy to mow down, but zombies only died for good when the necromancer told them to.

"In about three weeks," Harry said slowly, "Voldemort will start launching attacks using dead people instead of wasting his own Death Eaters. They won't be very successful with Inferi, because while those are useful for scaring small children they aren't any good in a fight. So then he'll return to using his Death Eaters, who probably like the work they do anyway." He looked up at Snape. "Why did you think I would find this useful?"

"I thought," Snape's eyes glittered maliciously, "that you would like the opportunity to get close to him for yourself. And the opportunity to make a few of his raids go…sour."

"That occurred to me," Harry said. "But I already know that using the dead doesn't help him. Why ruin something that will ruin on its own?"

"Forgive me for lacking your intrinsic knowledge of things to come," Snape said acidly.

Harry didn't respond. This was still, as Snape said, an opportunity. With some Polyjuice Potion or some other disguise, he could become Voldemort's personal necromancer. He would be very, very close to the thing he had to destroy.

"There aren't many of us in existence," Harry said, looking over at Shea, whose eyes hadn't left the dusty floor for most of the conversation between his student and the Potions Master. "And the few there are would prefer to hide. How does he plan to acquire one?"

"With honey rather than vinegar," Snape sneered. "In much the same manner he acquired his first one almost twenty years ago—"

"Shut up," Harry growled. His fingers tightened around his wand.

"Very well," Snape smirked, triumphantly gazing over a quivering Shea.

"Has he had any luck finding someone?" Harry continued with his questions.

"None. He's trying to locate our dear Quin here," Snape smirked again. "But he's proving quite elusive."

"Thank you for your information," Harry said, somewhat in dismissal. As Snape whirled to leave, with his robes billowing behind him, a thought occurred to Harry.

"Wait," he said. "Have you told this to Dumbledore yet?"

"As if I would report to you of my own volition," Snape snarled.

"He told you to tell me that," Harry said grimly, not as a question.

"Yes. It would appear that he wants you to take advantage of the situation," Snape said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have much more important things to do than stay here and chat with the likes of you."

The door slammed behind the last of the black robes as he left the drawing room.

"I'm not going back to him," Shea said faintly. Harry looked at him in concern; he was shaking uncontrollably. "I won't. I can't."

"I know that," Harry said. He sighed. "Dumbledore may not, though, which is why we should continue your 'no' lessons."

"I don't want to."

Harry smiled softly. "See, you're getting better already."

"This isn't funny, Harry," Shea said. "You shouldn't go either. You can't Occlude, he'll know who you are in moments."

Harry said nothing. This would require some thought.

* * *

"Stop!"

Harry splashed to a halt in the watery tunnel at Hermione's fevered whisper. There was dim red light coming from ahead, coming from around Hermione's black silhouette. He crept closer to her, peering over her shoulder to see why she stopped. Behind them, Ron gasped.

Before them, out of the end of the tunnel, lay a gigantic underground chamber. Stalagmites randomly graced the floor of the cavern, while threatening stalactites hung from the cathedral-like ceiling in the manner of fangs. Brilliant flames licked the walls to illuminate the chamber in flickering red light. Chains hung high above the flames, along with a variety of weapons and other Dark objects whose purposes Harry couldn't begin to guess at. Tables covered in chains were in the center of the horrid room, and what looked like dried blood was splattered on most of the equipment.

This wouldn't have scared Harry so much if there wasn't a half-eaten, still fresh basket of fruit sitting atop one of the stalagmites.

"Turn around," Hermione said lowly, obviously fighting hysteria. "Quickly, come on—"

"Miss Granger," an icy voice echoed from below. Harry's blood began to simultaneously freeze and boil in his veins.

"I'm offended that you don't wish to join me for dinner," Voldemort said, idly raising a fork in their direction.

* * *

And now, with that cliffhanger, I leave you for a few weeks. Mwahahahaha!


	9. Dining

**9. Dining**

Harry drew his wand in a flash, only to watch it fly from his grasp. The same happened to Hermione and Ron. Shea just stood there, seemingly in shock.

"Such a daring escape," Voldemort said mockingly, rising from his table. A formal seating for two was in the middle of the hellish cave. "Little did you know that it led to my dining room, as well as my personal favorite torture chamber."

There was no running. There was no escape. Harry watched helplessly as several Death Eaters appeared from corners of the room. If they made a break for it the other direction up the tunnel, they wouldn't get very far. They were trapped.

"Harry," Voldemort said, gliding forward. Harry instinctively stepped back in the tunnel, his scar blazing. "We had such a nice duel last time we met. Do you care to continue?"

Harry's wand flew back to his hand. He looked to Hermione for guidance, and she shook her head.

"Ah, but of course, the lady is right," Voldemort said smoothly. "Dinner first. Then death. Please, do come down from that archway and join me…"

Harry found himself being levitated and brought slowly to the ground, along with his friends, who were struggling in midair. At the same time, Voldemort conjured three more chairs and extended his table to accommodate his "guests".

The four Order members landed neatly in their chairs. Harry, of course, faced Voldemort directly across the table. It did not take long for the Dark Lord to figure out that Harry was different.

"Your eyes are their old green colour again today, Harry," he said, taking a bite of meat from his plate. Plates, silverware, and food appeared in front of all four of them, with extra meat for Ron, a vegetarian selection for Harry, a bowl of cream for Shea, and a meal matching Voldemort's for Hermione. Harry supposed Voldemort was trying to show that he knew each of them well, right down to their dining tastes, but he didn't do a very good job of it. Harry wasn't a vegetarian.

Voldemort leapt up from his seat to lean over the table, staring into Harry's gaze. Harry was inwardly petrified and seething in hatred. He knew his thoughts were lingering in front of his gaze, right where Voldemort could see them thanks to his Legilimency abilities. He knew that he should look away, but he couldn't break away from that snakelike, crimson gaze. Here was the man-, no, the thing that had destroyed his life, killing everyone that meant something to him. The thing that drove his older self to become a psychotic killer. The thing he had to destroy himself.

"You aren't right," Voldemort breathed into his face. He backed off a few inches. "There's something going on here that I'm missing. _Crucio_!"

Harry tensed, preparing to be hit with the torture curse. But he felt nothing. Instead, screams assaulted his ears from his left. He whirled in his seat to see Hermione fall out of her chair and writhe on the floor, shrieking as the curse did its work.

"_Expelliarm_-" Harry began, only to have his wand knocked away by some unseen force again. He looked up at Voldemort, who was smiling cruelly at him and swaying in time to Hermione's screams.

"Stop!" Ron yelled hoarsely, jumping out of his seat. "You murderous—"

A Death Eater lazily mowed Ron down with a Stunning Spell.

"Stop it," Harry said tersely, unable to bear what was happening. "Torture me instead, I'm the one who's 'not right.'"

"Oh no, Harry," Voldemort said softly, idly changing the position of his hand around his wand as he continued Hermione's torment, "I know you very, very well. You would not break for me last year, not after weeks and weeks down here, in this very room. You didn't even start to scream until you were too weak to help it…and then you stopped because you were too weak to scream. Even then, you would not break. No, it is clear that I must torture your friends if I'm to get any information from you at all."

His wand lifted. Hermione's screams turned into ragged breaths.

"Don't say anything, Harry," she choked out. "I'll be okay."

Harry was in shock. Voldemort had tortured him? How was he supposed to react to this without giving himself away? Did it matter anyway that Voldemort didn't know his true age and abilities?

"Just tell me what's different about you, so that your friends' suffering can end," Voldemort said.

Before the Dark wizard could raise his wand to torture Hermione again, Harry said, "Fine."

Voldemort smirked coldly, and Harry went on.

"I'm only sixteen. I'm not a necromancer. That's what's different. Now stop hurting her."

Voldemort stared into his eyes again, and Harry could almost feel his mind being pried open for answers.

"Time travel," Voldemort said. He laughed. "So you're not my usual adversary. How interesting."

The Cruciatus Curse ripped into Harry's body before anything else could be said.

* * *

Harry hissed in pain when Ron accidentally elbowed him in the ribs as they descended the staircase.

"I think the Cannons have a better shot than last year—are you okay, mate?" Ron asked in midsentence.

"Fine," Harry grated. His ribs still hadn't healed completely from when Voldemort had crushed them several weeks ago. He supposed someone should have looked at it and fixed it, but usually injuries went away on their own. Maybe he wasn't so lucky this time.

"Is it your scar?" Ron asked, concerned.

"No," Harry said shortly.

"Then what is it?" Ron pressed.

"You elbowed me."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Ron said. "I didn't even feel anything. Maybe Mum should look at it."

"I'm fine," Harry lied. "Let's just go to breakfast."

The duo sat down at the kitchen table. Hermione and Ginny were there, giggling about something or other.

"Good morning," Hermione said as the boys joined them. She rolled her eyes at Ron's appearance. "Honestly Ron, you could splash some water on your face, or put on some actual clothes before coming down. I don't see why you always have to look like the walking dead in the morning—"

Hermione cut herself off with a fearful look at Harry, who pretended not to notice. _She hasn't even seen me raise zombies yet_, Harry thought to himself. That thought reminded him that the time would be coming soon. He had to raise the dead every so often, otherwise his powers would build up and release themselves out of his control, and the results of this were never good.

He mentally shook himself from these macabre thoughts and helped himself to some toast. He glanced idly at the Daily Prophet in the middle of the table, scanning for headlines regarding Voldemort. There was nothing.

"Voldemort's been quiet lately," Harry said.

"Yeah, it's odd," Hermione frowned. "Nothing's happened for a week. I wonder what's going on."

"Probably angry after that last failed raid," Ron said through a mouthful of toast, earning him another disgusted look from Hermione. He swallowed sheepishly. "The Order managed to stop that one."

"But when he's angry, he usually kills more people or something," Ginny pointed out.

"And I would know," Harry said softly. He was mildly upset that Dumbledore wouldn't let him join the Order, but at least he was able to help by telling him what was going to happen and how. That was how the Order had thwarted Voldemort's last attempt at mayhem. In his own time, the last week had been peppered with murders of Muggles and wizards alike, while in this time things were quiet. He feared that his advantage in knowing things to come was at an end.

"Has your scar been hurting at all, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Once in a while," Harry admitted. "But he's not angry."

"What is he, then?"

"Children, let's not talk about these things at the table," Mrs. Weasley admonished as she set a platter of eggs in the middle of the table.

"All right," Ron said as he piled his plate high. "So can you tell us where everyone is this morning?"

"Out," his mother said shortly.

"Out where?" Ron pressed.

"Just out," Mrs. Weasley snapped. "Eat your breakfast!"

"You're going to have to trust us eventually, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said. He knew perfectly well that most Order members that regularly visit Grimmauld Place were all at the Ministry today, while Lupin was spying on the werewolves, Tonks and Kingsley were spying on a raid site, and Snape was spending the day as a Death Eater. "We can help more than you think."

Mrs. Weasley's expression managed to soften and harden at the same time.

"Have some eggs, Harry dear," she said.

"I can't," Harry informed her.

"Why not?"

"They're kind of like meatballs."

Mrs. Weasley sighed. "What can I feed you now? Now that…now that…"

Harry's face remained blank as Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears. It seemed his…incident with a knife a few weeks ago had a lasting negative effect on her.

Harry sensed a strong aura enter the room. He looked around to see Shea standing meekly in the doorway.

"Is now a bad time?" he whispered.

Mrs. Weasley looked up and wiped her eyes on her apron. "No, Shea. Sit down. Would you like some breakfast?"

Harry noted how, unlike the others, Mrs. Weasley was kind to Shea. He supposed it was partly because Shea had resurrected Harry, and partly because she was so maternal toward everyone in general.

Shea stammered. "Er, yes please. Do you have any milk?"

Mrs. Weasley wiped her eyes once more and went back to bustling about.

A loud crash sounded in the hall outside of the kitchen, and Mrs. Black's portrait began to wail.

"Sorry!" Tonks's voice yelled, making the painting scream even louder. She entered the room, clad in a dark cloak which she draped over a chair. Her hair changed swiftly from long and black to short and purple. "I swear, that stand in the hallway moves around every time I come here."

"It's okay, Tonks," Mrs. Weasley said wearily. "Care for some eggs?"

"Wotcher, Molly! Eggs sound lovely," Tonks said, standing up again to load her plate much as Ron had.

"Here's your milk, Shea," Mrs. Weasley said, placing a glass in front of the necromancer. Tonks stiffened slightly as she noticed his presence, then shrugged and sat down across from him.

"How did it go?" Mrs. Weasley asked. Harry knew she was referring to the raid site he had informed Dumbledore about. The Order had sent two Aurors to watch the place.

"Absolutely nothing," Tonks said, stuffing her mouth. She swallowed. "I'm starting to wonder if all our miraculous new information is faulty. It was good at first, like earlier this week."

"Better safe than sorry," Mrs. Weasley said, stirring a pot on the stove.

"Wotcher," Tonks said. "But still. Where's the old man hearing all this stuff, anyway?"

Harry took another bite of toast. Dumbledore hadn't told the Order about him yet. He had been wondering how the old headmaster was explaining his sudden information. Apparently, he hadn't at all.

It was kind of alarming how everyone so blindly followed the old wizard's orders. The whole Order did anything Dumbledore asked them to without complaint or second thought. Even when Dumbledore told Aurors to stand in the cold by a building all night long based on information apparently from thin air, his orders were carried out.

Harry supposed that such a strong commander was needed to eliminate threats like Voldemort, but at the same time, it was reminding him of the very person they were trying to defeat.

"Oh!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed suddenly. "Dumbledore dropped off your school letters last night! Ginny, why don't you nip upstairs to get them, they're on my nightstand."

Ginny pushed away a cleared plate. "Yes, Mum," she said.

Hermione gave a little shriek. "Oh no!"

"Yes, the letters include your O.W.L. results," Mrs. Weasley said, smiling nervously. "I'm sure you did fine."

"Oh no!" Hermione whimpered again.

"Are we going to Diagon Alley to get our school things?" Ron asked.

"Probably not today, dear, I want a few Aurors to come with us just in case," Mrs. Weasley said.

"But they're all 'out' today?" Ron inquired.

"Yes, Ron, they're 'out,'" his mother returned in a voice that declared finality of the matter.

"Excuse me," Harry said, standing up. He didn't need to see his O.W.L. grades again, or his list of school supplies. He needed to get away from the kitchen, and away from the kind but censoring mother. He headed up to his room.

He didn't think he would become close to Ron and Hermione again, knowing what they were like three years from now, but before they became a sickening couple they were okay. And he didn't like how Ron's mum wouldn't tell them anything. The whole Order was guilty of this. If only they knew that those children they were sheltering would be taking over a good portion of the Order's mission in two short years because everyone else was dead…

"Harry?"

Harry blinked and looked around. Shea had entered behind him. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"A little bit," Harry said truthfully.

Shea frowned. "You're angry."

Harry sat down on his bed. There was no point in hiding anything from Shea. "It's just that the Order doesn't have a clue. They don't realize that they need every person who can hold a wand."

"Like your friends?" Shea ventured.

"Right," Harry said. "It's no wonder the future is so awful when the people who are fighting in a few years are so unprepared. I know Mrs. Weasley and the rest of the Order mean well, but still."

Shea cocked his head and took a sip of his milk. "That's not all that's bothering you."

Harry smiled grimly. "I'm trying to murder a madman who killed my entire family and wants to kill me, I can't trust anyone, not even Dumbledore, I'm in the past watching as things go wrong all over again—" Harry stopped his rant with a gasp.

"What?"

"And my ribs are still hurting from two weeks ago."

"What happened two weeks ago?" Shea asked.

"Well, I guess it happened three years from now," Harry corrected himself. Seeing Shea's puzzled look, he explained, "Voldemort managed to use a wandless Crushing spell on me. Before I left to come here."

"I can fix it," Shea offered shyly.

Harry winced. "Things like this usually go away, though. In fact, it was almost gone last week. I don't know why it got worse."

"Maybe you need to raise something," Shea suggested. "Sometimes healing powers go away. And if I'm hurt and raise something, my powers fix my own body in the process of fixing the other one."

Harry thought for a moment. "Probably. I will tonight."

He tried not to shudder at the thought.

* * *

Three years in the future, Harry screamed.

* * *

a/n: Please review and tell me if I'm keeping everyone in character. That's my biggest concern, that I may be screwing characters up. Tell me what you think. I've heard so many different opinions of this story now that I don't even know if it's good or bad.


	10. The Assassin and the Spy

**10. The Assassin and the Spy**

Shea watched.

He watched as Harry lay twitching on the ground, gasping for breath between screams. The Dark Lord was absorbed in his task, chuckling once in a while. Hermione was looking all around for a way out, crying as she listened to Harry's torture. The Death Eaters were laughing.

It wasn't his Harry. It wasn't the Harry he had taught and even befriended over the past three years. But this boy was still Harry, and Shea was feeling nauseous doing nothing but watching.

"Stop," he said quietly.

Voldemort looked away from his work for a moment to glance at Shea. "What was that, my necromancer?"

"I told you to stop," Shea said, more firmly this time. The Death Eaters stopped laughing.

To his surprise, he did stop. Harry coughed a few times, struggling to get up. Hermione hurried to his side.

Shea reached past his own emotions to get a sense of his former master's. Most of the time Shea would be assaulted with emotions that were not his own, such was his gift of empathy, but it was different with Occlumency masters like Voldemort. More effort was involved.

The Dark Lord's feelings toward him were strange. There was fear and caution. There was confidence. But there was something else….protectiveness?

Why would he feel protective of Shea? Was it in the sense that he didn't want Shea to escape, or did he honestly care about him?

"You know I must kill the brat eventually, Shea," Voldemort said softly.

"I don't like cats," Shea replied.

Voldemort laughed, a soft hiss. "You refer to the tendency of cats to play with their prey before killing it. Would you prefer it if I ended his life now, then?"

Before Shea could say anything, Voldemort went on, "Yes, you would, because you would bring him back as if nothing happened."

Shea said nothing. His bluff had been called. Voldemort glided over to him, taking his chin in a long-fingered hand. Why did he always have to do that?

"I need you on my side, Shea," Voldemort whispered. "You belong on my side."

Shea broke away from the Dark Lord's grasp to look at his friends. Harry was sitting up now. Hermione looked determined. Ron was still unconscious.

"What have they ever done for you?" Voldemort continued, seeing the direction of his gaze. "They use you, they don't respect your powers. They don't respect you."

"Tom," Shea said quietly, "You tortured me this entire week."

Fear came off the Dark Lord in waves, making Shea blink and take a step back.

"You're right to be afraid of me," Shea informed him after a moment. "I don't even know what I'm going to do next."

* * *

Harry stood in the glistening grass behind Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the cool night wind blowing dark locks into his face. A waxing moon cast shadows behind the single tree in the small garden.

Harry stared at a single blade of grass, damp from an earlier shower that was typical of London nights. He had put this off for too long. His power was roaring through his veins and threatening to explode. No sooner had he acknowledged the fact that he was overdue to raise something when the blade of grass shriveled and blackened, dying on the spot. Harry shut his eyes tightly. At least it had only been grass this time.

He spread his hands, using his mind to search for the dead creatures in the garden. The dead were always present. Things were always dying. Birds, bugs, pets, humans both Muggle and wizard…there was always something dead around. Harry could feel them all. On occasion they could be heard, but usually it was just a feeling. Cold, empty, harsh, bitter, but always present. The dead were always present.

Harry took a deep breath and brought them back into a fake life.

* * *

Harry felt much better the next day. Shea was right; after raising a few random dead animals behind the house, he healed on his own.

He spent the morning practicing with his teacher, until a knock on the door interrupted them.

Harry straightened from a defensive crouch and concentrated. Someone old, powerful, and in a good mood was standing outside the door.

"Come in, Professor," Harry said loudly.

Dumbledore chuckled as he entered, closing the door behind him. "That's a nice talent you have, Harry."

"I know. Sir."

Dumbledore's mood sobered a bit as he sat down on a divan. "That's actually something I wish to discuss with you. Both of you," he said, nodding toward Shea.

Harry waited patiently for the headmaster to continue.

"As you may have heard, Voldemort is looking for a necromancer," the old man began. Harry rolled his eyes inwardly. "I believe he wants to create an army of the dead. He may also want to experiment with ways to make himself immortal using necromancer blood."

Harry continued waiting in silence for more.

"I think that one of you should go to him," Dumbledore said bluntly.

"That is what you wanted in my timeline. You forced Shea to go to him, to be a spy. Shea came back with no memory of what occurred. We think—thought—will think—anyway, he was tortured," Harry said, struggling with the correct tense to use. "Nothing good came of it."

"Then you should go. You know how to avoid Voldemort's games, you already know what's going to happen," Dumbledore said.

"I don't think I do anymore," Harry admitted. "I think my presence here is changing everything, because I've been wrong a few times recently about events that happened in my time."

Dumbledore thought for a few moments. "It is still an opportunity to get very close to Voldemort. Instead of Shea, you can go."

"I didn't back then. I think I should continue to not go to him."

"Perhaps, Harry, that is why your timeline didn't work out for the best," Dumbledore said.

Harry forced himself not to wince at this statement. "I don't see how any good can come of it. He'd figure it out almost immediately, I can't Occlude—"

"I've thought of that," Dumbledore said. He brought out his wand, and Harry's glasses slipped off his face. Dumbledore tapped the hovering spectacles with his wand, and they turned into pitch-black sunglasses. They returned to Harry's face. "Pretend to be blind. That way, you don't have to make eye contact."

Harry calmly removed his transfigured glasses and changed them back with a tap from his own wand. "While that is plausible and would possibly work, I still don't see the advantage in going to him."

Dumbledore sighed. "Harry, this is the perfect opportunity for you. This is a chance for you to be one of Voldemort's closest confidents, to be his secret weapon. You could finish him yourself at any time, and he would not expect it."

Harry thought about this. Dumbledore was right, it was a unique opportunity to get close to the Dark Lord. With some Polyjuice potion he could look like Shea, and spy on Voldemort from his side. One thing didn't make sense, though.

"If I wasn't capable of killing him, would you still want one of us to go?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Dumbledore said easily, inspecting a book on the table beside him. "I would want Shea to go, and act as a spy."

Harry looked over at his instructor. He was staring fixedly at the floor, his tail swinging nervously.

"I don't think Shea would be very good at that, Professor," Harry said.

"As I recall, he declined the position twenty years ago anyway," Dumbledore said. "You're quite right. And anyway, your description of events seems grim. So that's why you should go."

"I've never been a spy before, sir."

"No, but you're clearly an assassin," Dumbledore said. All pretense of being a doddering old fool was gone. The blue eyes shone like diamonds, harder than the jewel behind the half-moon glasses. "You'll find that many of the skills needed for both jobs are the same."

Dumbledore stood and headed toward the door. "Do think about it, Harry."

The door closed behind him. Harry stood in shock, wrestling with his feelings on the matter and trying to control some of the more negative ones.

The door opened again. "Molly made tuna sandwiches for lunch, and a side of salad just for you. You should come out and indulge her."

Harry sat down heavily and buried his face in his hands when the door finally closed.

His plans were crumbling. The simple, clear-cut path of going to the past, delegating the task of Horcrux-hunting to Dumbledore, then killing the Dark Lord was becoming more complicated. His advantage in knowing the things to come was gone, as Voldemort seemed to have caught on that the Order of the Phoenix had a very accurate source of information. He had saved Shea from going to Voldemort, he had saved his younger self from becoming a killer like himself, and he had kept from alienating himself from his friends, but nothing else was going right.

Should he go to the Dark Lord in disguise? Harry considered this. It would be a radical change to the timeline. After that, few things would be the same, and Harry's advantage would be gone entirely.

Harry knew that he would be able to handle Voldemort if it came down to a fight, but he couldn't kill him before the Horcruxes were all found and destroyed. The more that were destroyed, the more effective killing him would be, but it wouldn't be complete. Voldemort would find a way to restore himself to his body, just like he did in Harry's fourth year.

That night that still plagued his nightmares and made his stomach wring itself in guilt…

Perhaps, though, he could get to the snake. Nagini was one of the seven Horcruxes. What a convenient excuse to get close to Voldemort's dear pet.

"Are you going?" Shea asked timidly.

"I'm thinking about it," Harry replied from the floor.

"Was I—" Shea hesitated, then began again, "Did I really—"

"Dumbledore made you go in my timeline, yes," Harry said. He stared at the wall, remembering that dark time. "You didn't remember a thing afterward. You didn't even remember your own name or anything about your life for a few days, the Memory Charm was so powerful." Harry paused.

"But I got better?" Shea asked.

"Mostly." Guilt gnawed at Harry's stomach again. "You never did remember the week you spent with him. And we never told you afterward that you went at all. Dumbledore didn't want you to know about it."

"Oh."

Harry sat on the floor a few moments more, then stood up. Salad sounded good right about now.

"Are you coming for lunch, Shea?" Harry asked.

Shea bit his lip. "I don't think so."

Harry quirked an eyebrow, then reached out with his powers to sense the auras in the house. Several more were around than usual.

"You shouldn't be afraid of Mad-Eye Moody," Harry informed him.

"I know," Shea said quietly. "I'm not afraid."

Harry regarded him coolly for another moment. "Would you like me to bring you some milk?"

"That's very nice of you, but I don't want to impose—"

"Shea, it's just a glass of milk."

Shea looked to the floor. "Okay, then."

Harry shook his head wearily and headed toward the kitchen. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Tonks, and Mad-Eye Moody were all seated around the table, tucking into the food Mrs. Weasley prepared. Harry sat down next to Ron, who was making his way through a pile of sandwiches.

"So when are we going to Diagon Alley?" Ron asked through a mouthful of food.

"Honestly, Ron, try to display a few more table manners…" his mother responded as she set a fresh bowl of salad in front of Harry, who thanked her. "We're going in just a few minutes, after everyone has had a good lunch. How's your salad, Harry?"

"Er, wonderful," Harry said after swallowing. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, dear," Mrs. Weasley said absently. She consulted some lists in her hands and sighed heavily.

"There's a lot to get this year," she said, and Harry knew she was thinking about the money involved.

So did Ron. "It's all right, mum, there's only two of us going to Hogwarts this year."

Mrs. Weasley smiled, somewhat wistfully. "Yes, that's true. Everyone's growing up."

_Faster than you think_, Harry thought.

* * *

That's all I have for now. Tell me if the pace is too fast or too slow.

I also have a question, or a poll, if you will. What should Harry's animagus form be? I really don't know, but he needs one in a few chapters. Help would be appreciated.

Be well.


	11. An Assassin is Born

**A/N**: Summer is awesome. Even working odd jobs every day, I have more time to write. And here is the product. Notice how the quality is steadily improving along with the frequency of updates.

Hugs to my 100th reviewer, singingblondie! Hugs to my 101st reviewer, lukeisfamous, for that flattering review that was almost the 100th review! And hugs to my 99th reviewer, Fk306 animelover, without whom the 100th review would not have been possible! Besides that, you always review, so thanks, hun!

I could go on, but I will not. Here's the story.

Check my userpage for fanart by Eddy.

Read, enjoy, and review.

* * *

**11. An Assassin is Born.**

It was now late August. Days were as warm as they got in London, and the house was full of students hustling to get ready for the start of term.

Harry had very few belongings and could have been done packing his trunk in minutes, but he pondered over his possessions, remembering what would become of them later. He became so lost in thought that Ron had to throw a nasty old pair of socks his way to catch his attention.

"Hey mate, I'm talking to you," Ron's voice and socks broke into his thoughts.

"Yes?" Harry said, throwing the socks back to Ron. They were in their shared bedroom upstairs.

"I asked who you think Dumbledore is going to have for Defense Against the Dark Arts this year," Ron said as he chucked a few books into his trunk.

"Probably Shea," Harry said, closing his trunk and sitting atop it. He knew for sure it would be Shea, it had happened in his own time. In addition, Shea had informed him last week by means of a minor panic attack at the idea of speaking in front of large groups.

"Is that allowed?" Ron wondered.

"Is what allowed?" Hermione asked. She had just entered, followed by Crookshanks; the young witch sat down on Harry's bed and the cat hopped onto her lap. "You two aren't planning something against the rules already, are you?"

"Of course not," Ron said, looking offended. "I'm a Prefect!"

At Hermione's disbelieving stare, Ron went on, "Really, we were discussing something perfectly innocent."

"We were talking about who the D.A.D.A. professor is going to be this year," Harry put in.

"Probably Harry's teacher, right?" Hermione said thoughtfully. "I mean, Dumbledore had to find him and everything, and he's doing a good job." She looked questioningly at Harry for confirmation, who hadn't told them anything about his lessons.

Harry nodded. He didn't want to make anything up, in case it came up in conversation later with Shea. He settled for silence.

"Yeah, that's what Harry thought," Ron said. "But is that allowed? I mean, he's not exactly human—"

"Lupin wasn't exactly human," Hermione cut him off. "A werewolf was allowed to teach."

"Sure, but no one knew he was a werewolf except for the staff," Ron objected. "I think a tail is a little harder to hide."

"That's true, but even so," Hermione said. "The Ministry messed up last year, didn't they? They had some pure-blood fanatic instead of a competent teacher. Parents and officials probably won't mind a move in the opposite direction."

"And Shea is definitely competent," Harry said.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you, Harry," Hermione ventured, stroking Crookshanks. "What has Shea been teaching you?"

The little necromancer had been teaching Harry for the past three years more or less constantly, and he, Harry, was now the most powerful Auror in the world. Shea had taught him everything.

When Harry was silent, Hermione went on, "I mean, he has to be teaching you advanced magic to fight Voldemort. Oh grow up, Ron," she said when Ron jerked horribly at the name. "Spells and enchantments that we don't learn in school."

"That's about right," Harry allowed.

Hermione looked ready to burst; her eyes were wide and staring and her hair seemed to stand up, bushier than normal. Harry knew that she must be at least a little jealous that he got a private teacher over the summer and she didn't. Hermione was always thirsty for knowledge. "Are there any spells that you think are useful?"

_That must be Hermione's clever way of getting me to pass on what I've learned_, Harry mused to himself. "A few, I guess."

"Oh, go on then, Harry," Ron admonished, taking pity on Hermione, who was turning pink in the face. "Teach us one."

"Is Harry teaching again?" Ginny asked as she barged into the room. She cast a critical eye around the mess, which was entirely Ron's. "Shouldn't everyone be packing?"

"That's exactly what everyone should be doing," Ron said. "So get to it, then."

"I finished an hour ago," Ginny smirked, plopping down next to Hermione. "I just came to see what you were up to."

"We're trying to pack, of course!" Ron said. "People just keep coming in and distracting us. Isn't that right, Harry?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, Ron," Harry smiled. He tapped his closed trunk with his fingers. "I'm all packed."

As Ron muttered and threw his possessions even more haphazardly into his luggage and the girls giggled at his expense, a strange feeling came over Harry. Not someone else's feeling, as he was used to thanks to empathy, but his own. Was it nostalgia? Yes. It was just like old times, hanging out with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. He hadn't realized just how much he missed them.

"So what are you teaching to us, Harry?" Ginny asked, bringing Harry back to the present.

"I wasn't," Harry said.

"But you're a good teacher," Ginny whined.

"Are you going to run Dumbledore's Army again this year?" Hermione asked. "That was really good."

Harry considered. He hadn't in his own time, because he had been learning to deal with being half blind, among many other things. The original purpose of D.A., to learn defense because they weren't learning it from Umbridge, was no longer a factor with D.A.D.A. in Shea's capable hands. But he knew that with good people dying every day in the fight, students needed all the training they could get.

"I'll think about it," Harry said. The things he had to think about kept piling on.

"I hope you do," Hermione said. She stood up. "Ginny, do you want to help me pack?"

Ginny frowned. "I thought you were done."

Hermione flushed. "Yes. Well, there's more."

Ginny caught on, and the two girls left the room. Ron shook his head.

"She's lost her touch, Hermione," he said. "She used to be a much better liar. What do you suppose happened?"

Harry shrugged. He knew the girls were probably off to talk about him and his mental state. He was used to it.

Panic that was not his own washed into his mind. Mastering the emotion, he focused on the source.

"I'm going downstairs," he told Ron, and left the room.

* * *

"Why did you leave him?"

"I-I'm sorry, I don't know—"

"What do you mean, you don't know? You were the only one capable of doing anything!"

"I'm so sorry, I couldn't—"

Harry awoke slowly, his surroundings and situation hesitant to register. He was in a soft bed. It was cold. Then he remembered what just happened. His eyes snapped open to the sound of someone crying.

Hermione was huddled against a wooden wall, sobbing into her knees. They were in a dim, sparsely furnished room. Were they in Voldemort's castle?

"Harry?"

Shea's pale face appeared above his. Harry blinked and tried to sit up.

"Where are we?" Harry choked out. His voice was raspy.

"Grimmauld Place," Shea whispered.

"We're safe?" Harry asked.

Shea nodded wordlessly, unable to speak. Harry squinted, trying to make out his expression in the dark. Why was it so dark?

"Where is everyone?" Harry asked.

"We came for you," Hermione sobbed. She stood, and although she wasn't much taller than Shea she seemed to tower over him. "Ron volunteered to go into that hell looking for you-"

"Harry! You're back! What happened!" Mrs. Weasley's voice interrupted Hermione. Faint light came in from the door as it opened. The motherly woman was at his side in an instant. Harry looked up at her dazedly.

"Oh," Mrs. Weasley gasped and stepped back. "Oh, no."

"What?" Harry asked. His voice was still scratchy.

"Shea, what did you do?" Mrs. Weasley demanded. "His eyes!"

Fear gripped Harry, clenching around his heart. What was wrong with his eyes? Were they that freakish silver colour of his older self's eyes? Did he die?

"Shea made the same mistake he made three years ago!" Hermione shouted. "He's ruined Harry's life, and he killed Ron!"

"I can't bring Ron back!" Shea tried to explain, but his words were drowned out in a scream of anguish from Mrs. Weasley.

Harry cried out in pain as well. His chest was filling with ice, his head was going to explode….

"What happened to my son?" Mrs. Weasley cried. "What happened?"

Everyone was silent for a moment as they tried to put the scene into words. Another wave of pain washed over Harry and he screamed again.

"Harry? Harry dear, are you okay?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"You need to calm down, Mrs. Weasley," Shea said quietly. "Harry—"

"My son is dead!" Mrs. Weasley spat, and another fresh torturous shock coursed through Harry's body. "My son is dead and you're telling me to—"

"You're hurting Harry!" Shea whimpered. "And me," he said, even more quietly.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, tears streaming down his face. He was lying down again, too weak to sit up. "What's happening to me?"

"I think a round of explanations is in order," a cool voice suggested. It was Professor McGonagall.

"Minerva, Ron is dead!" Mrs. Weasley shrieked. She dissolved into tears, and Harry cried out again. What was going on?

"Calmly, please," the old witch requested. "Hermione?"

Hermione removed her glasses to wipe her face of tears with her sodden robe, then began.

"We entered the castle like we planned," she said slowly, obviously controlling the hysterics threatening to overtake her. "We found Shea, got him out…but we were trapped, so we couldn't go out the same way we got in. We took a passageway that we thought we lead out of the castle, but instead—"

Hermione broke off. Harry hissed in pain. He couldn't pinpoint where the pain was coming from, it was just raw pain…

"Shea, what else happened?" McGonagall asked sharply, realizing that Hermione couldn't say any more.

"Voldemort was waiting for us," Shea said quietly, picking up where Hermione left off. He walked over to Harry and placed a cool hand on his forehead. Some of the pain leaked away. "He realized that Harry was different in minutes and began to torture him. Ron was Stunned. I—"

"You have the power to stop him and you didn't do anything!" Hermione shouted, her momentary calm gone. "We shouldn't have had to come rescue you at all!"

"Miss Granger," McGonagall said coolly. Hermione withered under her harsh gaze. "Please continue, Shea."

"Er," Shea stuttered. "Well, I told him to stop."

"You told the Dark Lord to stop," McGonagall repeated slowly.

"Yes. And he did. For a moment."

"What happened then?"

"He went berserk," Shea said in a small voice.

"He killed Ron," Hermione whispered.

The pain returned. It was dull at first, and almost tolerable, but soon Harry was writhing in agony, gripping his hair in sweaty fingers. His head was swimming, and the darkness in the room intensified.

"Harry, concentrate on my voice," Shea said, keeping one hand on his forehead. "Try thinking about something you enjoy. Think about flowers. Flowers are pretty."

Harry could only cry out again in response.

"What are you doing to Harry?" McGonagall demanded.

"I'm trying to help him deal with the empathy, there's too much emotion in this room, all of it's bad," Shea explained, slightly panicked. "People need to leave, we need to finish this somewhere else—"

"Empathy?" McGonagall said sharply. "But this Harry doesn't…"

Her voice drifted off.

"Voldemort killed Harry, too," Hermione said through her tears.

All the pain left Harry's body, replaced by a silent hollowness. Voldemort killed him. After all these years of evading the Dark Lord, of thwarting plan after plan, he had been killed by the murderer of his parents, the wizard he knew he had to destroy. He had failed.

"And Shea brought him back, I presume?" McGonagall clarified. Hermione and Shea nodded.

"Why is he…different again?" McGonagall asked, struggling to come up with a term that wouldn't offend Shea or alarm Harry. "Why did you use too much power on him yet again?"

"I didn't," Shea said quietly. He quailed under the disbelieving looks from McGonagall and Hermione. "Really, I didn't! It's like he absorbs it or something. I used less power than what it usually takes to raise a human. Harry's just different somehow. I think that's what happened three years ago to our Harry."

"And why couldn't you bring my Ron back?" Mrs. Weasley asked through a waterfall of tears. "Why couldn't you raise my son?"

Shea looked away. "I couldn't. I'd rather leave it at that."

"I demand an explanation!" Mrs. Weasley cried. She launched herself at Shea, taking his torn and bloodied shirt in her hands to shake him. "Tell me why you didn't bring my son back to me!"

Shea's hand left Harry's forehead to deal with Mrs. Weasley's attack, and the pain returned, worse than before. He bit his lip to keep from screaming. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

He could dimly hear through the cloud of agony, "The body has to be intact for me to fully resurrect someone."

"What does that mean?"

"Ron's body was too damaged."

Mrs. Weasley screamed again and sank to the floor, wailing anew at the loss of her son. Harry almost screamed with her, the pain was so intense, but Shea's soothing hand returned. Harry gripped his arm, drawing ragged breaths. The room was silent except for the sniffling of several people.

"And how did you escape?" McGonagall asked into the silence.

"Shea did something," Hermione said. "It was like Apparating, only…I don't know what it was. We just showed up here a few minutes ago."

"Very well," McGonagall said, trying to get people focused and moving on. "The objective was accomplished. I just hope that it was worth it. Let's give Harry some space to recover, everyone."

She turned to leave, followed by Hermione and Mrs. Weasley. McGonagall stopped in the doorway.

"It's your responsibility to take care of Harry, and train him once again," McGonagall told Shea. "Because it is your fault that he died. You better be worth the price we paid to get you out."

The door slammed.

Harry took several deep breaths. He didn't want to think about training to become what his older self was. He was just a failure.

"I'm sorry you had to come get me," Shea whispered. "If only I wasn't so afraid of hurting people, Ron wouldn't have died—you wouldn't have died—"

"What did you do to me?" Harry asked, angrily shoving Shea's hand away from his head. The pain had been reduced to a dull throb once everyone left the room.

"I brought you back," Shea answered.

"But why can't I see anything? Why does everything hurt?"

Shea sighed and pulled up a chair to sit next to Harry's bed. "I've never been certain why I can't see very well. I just know that when I feel a lot of positive emotions, especially directed toward me, I can see better. Then when I sense negative emotions, I can't see at all. Just shapes. Sometimes there's nothing. I guess it's the same for you. Probably not as bad, though."

"And what's all the pain?" Harry asked, trying to calm down. "When Mrs. Weasley was in here, I thought I was on fire or something."

"You were feeling her pain," Shea explained. "Only physically, because you can't control it yet. Once you can control the empathy you'll be able to sense emotions, not the physical pain."

"Empathy?" Harry said. "You mean I'm feeling other people's emotions?"

Shea nodded.

Harry swallowed. "So…I'm like you now. I'm like my older self."

Shea considered, cocking his head to one side. "I'm not sure. I used less magic on you than, er, the other you. I don't think you're as powerful."

"Is that bad?"

"I guess we'll find out."

Harry was much calmer now, as he kind of understood what was going on. He still didn't like the thought that he had died recently. But how was he supposed to react to that? He tried to say it in his head. _I just died_. It didn't count for much when he was alive and mostly well at Grimmauld Place.

Harry sat up. He had a small headache, but other than that he felt fine now. If he ignored the fact that he could barely see.

"It's so dark," Harry said.

"It's actually quite bright in here," Shea said. "You'll get used to it. I mean, I wouldn't know, I was born mostly blind and I've gotten better over the years, but the other Harry got used to it quickly enough…well, at least within a year…." He trailed off.

Harry stared at him. He was blurry and dim, as if he wasn't wearing his glasses and the lights were turned off. Except for his strange silver eyes. They were as bright as ever.

"Are my eyes like yours now?" Harry asked.

Shea nodded.

Harry looked down to his hands. He didn't know what to think, or what to think about. He was just numb.

"Do you want me to stay or go?" Shea asked quietly.

When Harry didn't respond, the necromancer stood and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, that's all for now. I'll bet you don't like what I did to younger Harry. Heh. Don't worry, he's not quite like his older self, as you'll see in a few chapters. 

I also apologise to the Ron lovers out there. But I'm compensating by using him more in the other timeline. You know, with two timelines, I can go killing people left and right, and they'll still be in this story. evil cackle

I know that Professor McGonagall is a little OOC here, but I'd like to explain that with the fact that she's been hardened over the years by loss after loss.

I still need advice on what Harry's animagus form should be.

Please review, I only write because people review. Be well.


	12. The Art of Pain

**A/N: Hey all, sorry this took so long. I kind of crashed my car. Things have been hectic. **

**It's short, but at least I have more than a general plan for the next chapter, as things were supposed to go in this chapter, but I didn't want to make you lot wait even longer by making a longer chapter. Savvy?**

** Thanks to all my reviewers, you guys are awesome. **

** Check out my userpage for art by Eddy.**

** Read, enjoy, and review**

**

* * *

12. The Art of Pain **

The next few days were some of the most painful that Harry could remember. He could recall times in his past when he had been in intense emotional pain, in his childhood and occasionally in his Hogwarts years, and other times when his physical body had been in outstanding pain, at the hands of his relatives and Lord Voldemort, but seldom had these instances been combined and stretched out over many days.

For three days after he had been killed by Voldemort and raised by Shea, Harry screamed. Approximately twenty people haunted Grimmauld Place every day, and he felt them all. Their emotions rushed through his own mind and body, bombarding his nerves and slowly driving him insane as he lost the ability to tell what he was feeling himself, which made the problem ever worse. It was a downward spiraling chain reaction.

Harry stared up at his caretaker through a bleary haze, his throat raw and incapable of making more noise beyond a few hoarse whimpers. Shea was his only reprieve. When he was nearby, some of the pain and confusion went away. When Shea touched his forehead, he almost felt like himself again. Unfortunately, Shea's effect only worked for so long, and then the pain would return.

"Harry, drink this," Shea's concerned voice broke through the chaos of Harry's (or were they Harry's?) thoughts. "Can you hear me? You need to drink this, it's just milk."

Milk. Milk was white. Milk. What did milk taste like? Cold? White?

Harry was about to say something along these lines when a rush of fear swept through him, making him gasp and break out in a fresh sweat.

"That's just Mrs. Weasley again, Harry," Shea said. Was he feeling it too, Harry wondered? Yes, of course he was. "I don't know why you're so sensitive to every single change in mood everyone in the house has. The other Harry isn't."

"C-c-cold," Harry murmured.

"What was that?"

But Harry could say no more. He forgot what it was he wanted to say.

"Here, sit up." Gentle hands lifted Harry from his pillows so that Harry almost fell forward.

"Not that much! Oh, I'm sorry!" Soft pillows caught Harry before he fell backward. "Okay, can you drink this now?"

Something cold was pressed into Harry's hands. The cold spread to his lap.

"Oh, no. _Scourgify_!" Now the cold was gone. Was it gone? He was still shivering.

"Let me help," the voice said. It seemed to be growing fainter. Something cold and hard touched his lips.

Shea's hand covered Harry's forehead, and consciousness rushed back to his mind. Shea was holding a cup of milk to his mouth. Harry drank slowly, savoring the way it coated his parched throat.

"Are you okay?" Shea asked after Harry was finished.

Harry nodded. Shea made to put the cup down and take away his hand, but Harry grasped his wrist tightly.

Harry could see Shea frown through the dimness and the haze. "Harry, I can't be attached to your forehead forever."

Harry didn't want to speak, so he merely shook his head.

"You're going to have to learn to control this," Shea said for the umpteenth time. "I really don't know why you're so sensitive to all the emotions in the house. I think you're as sensitive as I am."

"How?" Harry croaked.

"I don't know that either—" Shea began, but Harry shook his head feebly again. "Oh, you mean how do I control it? It's like a different branch of Occlumency. The goals of both areas of magic are the same, to keep foreign minds out. The difference is that Occlumency specifically protects against Legilimency and other things that force their way into your mind, and…well, I'm not sure what it's called, but it keeps emotions at bay, that protects against things that other people can't help. I'm sorry, that wasn't very informative."

Harry felt himself slipping away again into a world of unlabeled pain from all directions. "How does it work?"

"You have to learn to identify where the emotions are coming from. You have to figure out what belongs to you and what doesn't. And then…"

"What?" Harry rasped, impatient.

"You're not going to like this, but I can't explain it otherwise. You just ignore what doesn't belong to you."

"It feels like I'm being torn apart!" Harry burst out, hurting his throat further. "How can I just ig—" He broke off, coughing.

"Don't talk anymore, Harry," Shea said unnecessarily. "I guess I have an unfair advantage regarding this. When I was really little, my mum—well, she wasn't very nice. She didn't like me at all. She, well…"

Unbearable sadness and memories of physical pain leaked into Harry's overwrought mind from Shea's normally soothing hand, and Harry pushed him away.

"Sorry about that," Shea whispered.

"It's okay," Harry said. Strangely, he felt better. "Your mum hurt you?"

"A lot," Shea said, looking away. "Anyway, when I finally recovered from all those injuries, I was left with the pain of others, which didn't hurt as much. It's a comparison thing."

"So I need to hurt myself on top of all this to feel better?"

"Well, no. But it would help."

Harry frowned. It kind of made sense. When Shea's emotions had hurt him more than the more distant and less potent ones of Mrs. Weasley, the relief from Shea almost masked Mrs. Weasley. And right now, Shea wasn't even touching him, and he was capable of thinking rationally. Distraction and comparison worked.

"So the trick is to not think about it?" Harry asked.

"That sometimes helps. What helps depends upon the situation," Shea said.

"You know what doesn't help?" Harry asked through gritted teeth. "Your help."

Shea hung his head sadly. "It's just hard to explain. It's like teaching someone who was blind all their life not to stare at the sun."

"I'm sure that concept would be easier to grasp!"

"Okay, it's like teaching someone who was deaf all their life to plug their ears when a jet goes by, only they have no arms."

Harry had nothing to say to this more accurate analogy, but he was still angry enough to rant at Shea. "I thought you were supposed to be the best teacher ever. Dumbledore said you memorized the whole Hogwarts library."

"Harry, just because a person can memorize useless information doesn't make them a good teacher. Or a student, for that matter," Shea added, leaning back in his chair.

"So you admit that you're not the greatest teacher," Harry said. He had no idea why he kept raving like this.

"I admitted nothing." Harry watched as Shea picked up a quill from the bedside table and twirled it around his fingers like a toy. "Typically, it is the job of the teacher to present information and the job of the student to learn it. But like I said, memorizing information doesn't make anyone special. It should be my job to teach you how to think. Then you can gather information yourself and use it to your own ends. That's more useful, isn't it?"

Harry thought about that for a moment. "I suppose so, yes, but—"

"How do you feel, Harry?" Shea asked.

Harry stared incredulously. "What do you mean, how do I feel? I—"

_I feel fine_, Harry thought to himself. The pain was gone. He had been distracted enough to push it out of his mind.

"It's mostly gone," Harry said. "I feel fine."

"You're welcome," Shea said, and he left the room with the rest of Harry's milk.

* * *

Harry hurried downstairs and into the kitchen, the source of the panic seeping through the very walls of the house. Dumbledore was there, standing calmly in his long purple robes. Lupin was there as well, sitting at the table looking ill and exhausted. Across from Lupin was Shea, pale and shaking uncontrollably.

"I can't," Shea whispered, looking up at Dumbledore with a slightly wild expression. "I can't do it."

Dumbledore only smiled vaguely. "I have the utmost confidence in you, Shea."

"What's going on here?" Harry asked coldly.

Dumbledore looked at him. "Hello, Harry. We are merely having one of those boring conversations that the old enjoy. We'll be done in a few minutes."

"I'm an old person too, sir."

Dumbledore blinked behind his half-moon spectacles and promptly gestured for Harry to sit down, but Harry merely crossed his arms in response. He sighed and explained, "We are trying to convince Shea that he is well-suited to teach at Hogwarts."

Harry considered. "Well, he's not, really."

Lupin frowned. "Harry, that's not the—"

"He's too shy to speak in front of large groups, and he's afraid of Hogwarts," Harry interrupted. "Of course he's not well-suited."

"So you don't think he should teach, Harry?" Lupin asked.

"Of course he should teach, I just don't think he's well-suited to the task," Harry said. "He is, however, an excellent teacher who can overcome panic attacks if he really tries."

Shea looked up at him. "Harry, I haven't even been able to teach you anything new."

"That's because you already taught me most of the useful dueling spells out there within three years," Harry countered. "More importantly, you taught me _how_ to think, not just _what_ to think."

Everyone was silent for a moment after this pronouncement.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Excellent. I think that settles it. Shea, I expect to see you at the start-of-year feast tomorrow night. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to the school now. Have a good day, everyone."

The moment Dumbledore was gone, Harry uncrossed his arms and plopped into the seat next to Lupin.

"Harry, did I actually go through with this in your timeline?" Shea asked.

"Yes," Harry said shortly.

"Oh." There was a pause. "I didn't seriously mess anything up?"

"No. Well, maybe once," Harry corrected himself.

Nausea replaced the panic from Shea in Harry's mind, and he stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a more interesting conversation that the young enjoy."

The next day was September 1st, and the four people living in Grimmauld Place who still attended school were driven to King's Cross Station early in the morning. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny hurried onto the Hogwarts Express, lugging their trunks behind them. Harry separated from the other three without a word. Ron and Hermione had Prefect duties, while Ginny was off in a world of her own with Dean.

He made his way through the train, looking for a quiet compartment and trying to avoid the stares of his "fellow" students. It had been worse when he was sixteen, boarding this train after weeks of dread, unable to see and nervous about the hurtful words and actions that were sure to come. Now the staring and whispering were mere irritants. Just because Harry had been right about Voldemort's return a few months ago and was coming back to school with a shocking new eye color didn't mean he should be gawked at like a—

"…Crumple-Horned Snorkack!" a loud voice exclaimed.

Harry smiled. He had found his compartment.

"Hello, Luna, Neville," Harry nodded to each as he opened the compartment door. "May I sit here?"

"Of course, Harry," Neville said, looking relieved to see him. Luna was busy reading the Quibbler through a pair of enormous colored glasses. "Have a good summer?"

Harry shrugged and unceremoniously shoved his trunk into the luggage rack. "You?"

"As good as any, I suppose," Neville said, juggling his toad from hand to hand as it tried to escape. "Gran bought me a new wand, cherry and unicorn hair…"

They made small talk for a while. Harry didn't pay attention to any of it. It was just nice to see Neville again. He had died at the hands of his parents' torturer, Bellatrix Lestrange, a year before. And he hadn't seen Luna in two years, as she had simply vanished from the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again. No one had the slightest clue what had happened to her, which was actually well in her character. Perhaps he should run the D.A. again this year, Harry mused. If only to give everyone a little extra practice.

"Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?" Luna asked, as if she were reading his mind. Before Luna had disappeared, Harry had often wondered if she had some kind of unconscious Legilimens abilities.

"I think so," Harry answered cautiously, not wanting to get her hopes up. "I mean, now that Umbridge is gone we really don't have to, but it was fun, wasn't it?"

"Indeed," Luna said happily. "It was like having friends."

Harry nodded, only slightly fazed in pity by this statement. "Right."

"Why are your eyes that funny color?" Luna asked suddenly, speaking from behind her multicolored, psychedelic Spectrespecs.

"I like them that way."

"Okay," said Luna serenely, and she went back to her reading.

* * *

A/N: That's all for now. Reviews make me write faster. Be well. 


	13. The Innocent Murderer

**A/N**: Okay, I'm trying to make up for that month where I didn't update. I'm not sure when the next one will be, as the next few days are going to be busy.

Now, lots of people said that they were confused about which Harry was which in the last chapter. I absolute hate to do it, but I'm going to start putting segues like "Older Harry" and "Younger Harry" in to make it more obvious. Or dates. I'll try dates.

The first part of this chapter is from older Harry's point of view, the second part is three years into the future with younger Harry.

Check my userpage for fanart by Eddy.

Read, enjoy, and review.

* * *

**13. The Innocent Murderer  
**

The train ride continued without incident. Ron and Hermione joined them after a few hours, and the five friends talked about light matters such as Quidditch and classes. Neville kept stealing odd looks at Harry's silver eyes, but Luna didn't seem to care at all. Harry supposed that they were quite different from before; indeed, that was all people had ever talked about, the fact that he looked like his father but had his mother's brilliant green eyes.

Harry stopped trying to add to the conversation after a while, preferring to stare out of the window in silence. The clear blue sky darkened, a rich purple hovering over the horizon.

"We're almost there," Harry said quietly.

"Good, I'm starving," said Ron.

Hermione cast him a disapproving look. "Ron, every year is the same. We get on the train for school, and instead of thinking about academia on the way, you think of the feast."

"'Thinking about academia?'" Ron quoted back to her. "Sounds like something prats do."

"We should change into our robes," Hermione said, hastily changing the topic.

Harry winced inwardly. The opening feast. It would be full of pimple-faced teenagers shoveling food into their mouths, taking breaks only to talk about stupid things and to stare at Harry. The more Harry thought about it, the less he wanted to go. The train ride was one thing, when he was able to escape in a small compartment, but he didn't want to be with the student body at this time. He was nineteen, but he acted and felt much older. Going back to school was just not right.

Unfortunately, he couldn't spend the school year traveling the country looking for Horcruxes and Voldemort. He needed to stay close to the Order and remain in a safe place, and Hogwarts was perfect for both items. He had told Dumbledore what he knew about the remaining Horcruxes, and the Order was working on finding them. In the meantime, there was one more to discover, and Harry doubted that Snape would be able to determine its identity. Perhaps research at Hogwarts would provide some insight.

Another reason Harry had to return to Hogwarts was to preserve the timeline. It would create quite a stir in the wizarding world if their "Chosen One" didn't show up for school. His mere presence had already destroyed his advantage in knowing the things to come. He had naively assumed that he would be living in a world of déjà vu upon his arrival in the past. But Voldemort's actions had changed, the Order's actions had changed… even the everyday conversations had changed. Doing something as drastic as not attending Hogwarts as a sixteen-year-old might destroy everything.

Besides, he owed it to his younger self to take his place. He had asked the same of him. Telling the actual sixteen-year-old Harry to go into the future to be an Auror was a lot tougher than going to school.

Even so, Harry still didn't want to go to the feast.

"Do you know the password for the Fat Lady?" Harry asked Ron and Hermione.

"Sure," Ron said. "It's 'odiferous scullion.'"

"Ron!" Hermione protested. "Luna's in here!"

"Oh." Ron's ears went red. "I forgot."

Luna looked up, the glasses hanging off of her ears. "Did someone say my name?"

It was Hermione's turn to blush. "Never mind. It's okay."

After this exchange, Ron and Hermione left the compartment to tend to their Prefect duties. The train slowed and came to a full stop at the station. Harry, Neville, and Luna left their compartment and made their way to an exit. More than once, Harry wished he had thought to purchase more contacts in London. He didn't know a spell to change his eye color; asking Shea how to do so when they changed in his own time had produced scary results. He added another item to the list of things to research while in Hogwarts.

The thought that he was turning into Hermione brought a miniscule smile to his lips as the odd trio left the platform to enter one of the thestral-drawn carriages. The castle loomed over them as they approached, the lights in the windows looking warm and inviting.

Harry climbed the stairs into the cavernous entrance hall with Neville before making his escape. He slipped directly behind the enormous castle doors, which were just far enough away from the castle wall to make a nice hiding space. He watched the elongated shadows of people moving by on the wall for a moment and reached out with his empathy to detect any awareness of his whereabouts. He had been quick, for no one gave any indication of puzzlement as to why someone was hiding behind the door.

Harry closed his eyes and willed himself to become his Animagus form. Two years ago in his timeline, Shea had suggested that Harry choose a side project for the two of them to work on. Harry, thinking of his father and Sirius, wanted to train to be an Animagus. Shea tried to convince him otherwise, as there was no guarantee that his Animagus form would even be useful, but Harry had insisted.

A small black cat with bright green eyes and a jagged mark on its face sauntered into the entrance hall from behind the main castle door. He darted across the hall and bounded up the stairs with liquid grace, heading for the Gryffindor common room.

Harry loved being a cat. His vision was worlds sharper, and he felt strong enough to handle anything. At first he had been confused about why it was his animal form, mostly because of the shock of sharing it with Professor McGonagall, but it seemed to fit him somehow. He was a loner, aloof and confident. And he was good at tracking and killing prey.

Now that he was sufficiently far away from the Great Hall so that no one would see him and tell him to go to the feast, Harry snuck into a bathroom so that he could change back. Looking around carefully to make sure that Myrtle wasn't there, he transformed back into a human. Harry stretched for a moment before leaving the stall. He always felt so heavy and stiff after being a cat.

"Odiferous scullion," Harry told the Fat Lady a few minutes later.

"Is the feast done early?" she asked.

"No," Harry answered shortly.

"Shouldn't you be there?"

"Was that the right password?" Harry asked coolly, ignoring her.

"Fine, I'll let you in," she snapped. "Never mind when I'm just trying to help…" The portrait swung forward and Harry climbed in before she could say more.

The warmth of the common room almost hurt his weak eyes. A roaring fire and the energetic red and gold décor seemed elaborate and decadent. After the past year of hell wrought by Voldemort and another summer in Grimmauld Place, the cheery Gryffindor common room was a foreign sight.

Harry climbed the boys' staircase and entered his old dormitory. He allowed a rare full smile to cross his face.

"I'm home," he said.

* * *

_Three years into the future_

Now that Harry was capable of doing more than lying in bed screaming all day, lessons had begun. He had fallen into something of a routine: wake up early, drink milk, go to the drawing room, duel Shea and fail miserably, try to learn something, go to the Order meeting, eat dinner, go to bed.

He found he didn't need to eat much, and Shea advised against having more than a glass of milk and a small vegetarian meal per day. It was a good thing, too, for there wasn't much food in the house. They were reduced to stealing from Muggle grocery stores and Obliviating memories, as the wizard bank didn't exist anymore.

The death of Ron had hit everyone hard, but no one grieved like Mrs. Weasley. Harry saw her twice a day, at breakfast and in the evening, and her eyes were always red with fresh tears. No words of comfort could reach the poor woman, as she had now lost most of her family.

Hermione, too, had taken to spending a lot of her time crying. Harry knew that in the future Ron and Hermione had finally gotten together. Now, after years of denial of their feelings for each other, Ron was dead. Harry had tried to talk to her at one point, but she had merely rushed out of the room, sobbing.

"Harry, you're not clearing your mind," Shea's quiet voice broke into his thoughts.

"Right. Sorry," Harry said lamely.

The two of them were in the drawing room. They had already worked on a new spell, _Caedes Enecto_, which would tear the flesh of enemies to shreds and kill them almost instantaneously. Harry had been reluctant to try this one at first, because it sounded like Dark magic to him, but Shea pointed out that it was actually a spell Mrs. Weasley used often, just on vegetables instead of people. Then Shea added that it had been a Dark spell before a kitchen one, but few people knew that now. After this Harry had torn a rock apart using the spell, and they had moved on to Occlumency.

While Shea was an infinitely better teacher than Snape, it still wasn't going well.

"Thinking of nothing is very difficult for us, which is why we can't fully close our minds," Shea said sympathetically. "The moment our minds are clear, others fill them up. But you could still try a little harder."

"I am trying!" Harry protested.

"So then when Hermione walked past the room thinking of Ron, you were distracted for a whole minute?" Shea asked.

"Er…" Harry couldn't refute this statement.

"Let's try another way," Shea suggested. "You can't really defend your mind against something when you don't know what the something is, right?"

"Right," Harry said, wondering where this was going.

"I'm going to give you a crash course in Legilimency," Shea said. He drew his new wand, which an Order member had scavenged from a fallen Death Eater. "Maybe this way you'll know what you're up against."

"Do I even need to learn Occlumency at all?" Harry asked. "I mean, Voldemort hasn't tried to attack my mind or anything lately."

"That's because your older self knows enough to be able to fight him off," Shea informed him. "The Dark Lord hasn't tried to break into his mind at night for a long time. Plus, it's just a useful skill. You'll face him again, and again, and it's much easier to attack someone when they don't know what you're thinking."

"But if I can't close my mind all the way, what's the point?"

"The point is that the Dark Lord will have to work harder to get into your mind, so in the end he won't bother," Shea said matter-of-factly.

"Okay," Harry said, giving up.

"Right. Legilimency," Shea stood up and began to pace around, which he always did when he was lecturing. "Legilimency is the branch of magic concerned with breaking into the minds of others. Skilled Legilimens can look into someone's eyes and determine their secrets wandlessly. We, however, will be using the incantation and our wands, which is a sloppier method. You can't control the memories that come to you, beyond the tone. Also, only memories can be accessed through the incantation, you can't glimpse the thoughts of others. Questions so far?"

"Yeah," Harry said, standing up. "Is it like mind reading? Snape said that the mind couldn't be read, or something like that."

"Yes and no," Shea answered. "It's more like accessing memories, not reading a book. In a book you can flip to the index and find the chapter you need, but the mind has to be manipulated into revealing the information you want."

"Okay," said Harry. "That makes more sense."

"All right," Shea said. "Now, the incantation is 'Legilimens.' To cast the spell, you must maintain eye contact with the subject, and clear your mind enough for their memories to play before your mind's eye."

"So we're back to trying to clear my mind?" Harry asked wearily.

"Yes. You're going to have to learn how eventually, Harry," Shea said.

Harry nodded. Why was it always that he needed to do the thing that he couldn't do?

"Try the spell on me," Shea suggested.

Harry hesitated. "Are you sure? I mean, I don't want to break into your mind any more than I want Voldemort breaking into mine."

"I thank you for your respect of my privacy, but you need to practice on someone," Shea pointed out.

"I—okay," Harry said, though he wasn't happy about it.

"If it makes you feel any better, you probably won't get it on your first try," Shea said.

Harry frowned. "No, that doesn't make me feel better."

Shea shrugged. "Whichever. Now, practice the incantation a few times…."

Shea turned out to be correct; absolutely nothing happened on Harry's first few attempts. Shea stood there patiently, offering no defense for himself as Harry tried to attack his mind.

"Clear your mind. Eye contact. Incantation," Shea said quietly. "You'll get it."

Harry swallowed. Part of the trouble with clearing his mind this time was the fact that he didn't want to invade Shea's mind in the cruel manner that Snape had done to him the past year. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It wasn't the same, he told himself. Shea wanted him to practice the spell on him. It wasn't the same…

"_Legilimens_!" Harry said.

The images came slowly at first, appearing to Harry as if out of a fog. A small child stood alone in the corner of a room, looking around with wide silver eyes at the people around him…a toddler was being beaten by a hysterical woman…

The images became clearer now…a teenaged boy drove a knife into his wrist…a small student was slammed into a wall…a high, cold laugh erupted into the night as a young man raised a field of zombies…

Harry blinked. He was back in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, facing the necromancer from those visions. Shea was on the floor, blinking back tears and coughing.

Harry watched in a mixture of wariness and pity as his teacher got up and wiped his eyes.

"I think you have the spell down," Shea said weakly.

"That laugh," Harry said, more accusingly than he intended. Shea winced. "That was Voldemort."

"It was," Shea admitted, averting his eyes. Harry began to shake.

"That's why everyone hates you," Harry spat. "You helped him. You were a Death Eater!"

"I—" Shea stammered. "I wasn't a Death Eater. We had a sort of business relationship; I would do a task for him and he would teach me necromancy in return. It was a mistake, I know, but—"

"You helped him," Harry repeated. "I can't believe I trusted you."

Shea flinched at this. "Harry, let me explain. I ran away from Hogwarts before I could take my N.E.W.T.s, I had nowhere to go, I couldn't get a job because of what I am…but the Dark Lord wanted me."

"Of course," Harry said viciously, "he wants all the help he can get trying to take over the world and kill me."

"No!" Shea said. "It's not like that. I mean, someone wanted me. It was the first time ever."

Harry swallowed the next thing he wanted to say as it was drowned in sympathy. He knew the feeling of being unwanted. The Dursleys had instilled it into him as a toddler.

"I knew that Voldemort was supposed to be the bad guy," Shea went on, as if trying to justify his actions to himself. "I knew he was a Dark wizard, and I had just gone to school for Light wizards…I knew that Voldemort was bad because he tortured and killed people…but the problem was that Light wizards had been torturing and trying to kill me since I was a baby. There was no difference between the two sides for me." He looked at Harry with tear-filled eyes. "The difference was that one side wanted me."

Harry nodded slowly. He could almost understand now. "So you went to him."

Shea stared at the floor. "No, he had to corner me first. I was scared, I knew that he wasn't a good person at all…but then he explained his proposal to me. He let me go to think about it, and I ended up going back to him to accept."

"What was his proposal?" Harry asked.

Shea sat down on a divan, still looking at the floor. "He had a book. It was written in Latin and cursed so that if someone who needs the information contained within the book reads it, the knowledge will be lost the moment the reader looks away. It was the _Desiderium Stringio_ charm. He let me read a few pages, and sure enough, it was all gone when I looked away. So he offered to read the book to me."

"How do you know it wasn't a trick?" Harry asked. "Maybe he modified your memory."

"I remembered reading it, I just couldn't remember what I had read," Shea said. "Which had never happened to me before."

"Right," Harry said, remembering what Dumbledore had said about Shea and the Hogwarts library. "So what was the book, anyway?"

Shea grimaced. "Everything about necromancers and necromancy. Information I had been looking for since I was a child. I had never met another one of my kind, I didn't know anything about my body or powers. I always wanted to know if I was the only one, and if not, why I hadn't met another."

"So he read the book to you?" Harry asked. "Did you find all that out?"

"Not the whole book," Shea said sadly. "It was somewhere around six hundred pages long. He would read so many pages based upon the task he put before me."

"That's mad," Harry said. "Why did you agree to that?"

"I didn't have a choice."

They were silent for a while. Harry's anger had abated, replaced with something more akin to revulsion.

"So why did you leave him?" Harry finally asked.

Shea sighed. "I couldn't do a task for him."

"What task?"

"He…" Shea hesitated. "He wanted me to kill Dumbledore."

Harry's jaw dropped. "So what did you do?"

"I had already killed for him," Shea said quietly. "But I had murdered strangers, so it didn't even occur to me to care. Death means nothing to me, after all."

As if out of a dream, Harry remembered what Dumbledore had been saying before his older self showed up to turn his life upside down.

"_I want you to be instructed by the best," _he had said.

"_Aren't you the best, sir?" _

"_As flattering as it is to hear you say that, Harry, I must shelve my ego for a moment and admit that I am not."_

"You dueled him, didn't you?" Harry asked, afraid of the answer although he knew what it would be.

"Yeah," Shea said absently. "I nearly killed him."

* * *

A/N: Yep. That's all I have for now. Please, please review. Be well. 


	14. The Werewolf Cries

A/N: I am so, so, so, so, so x 1023 sorry about how late this is. My school is very demanding, I've finally had time to write this summer, but I've been writing Day With No End as well. I'm also sorry this chapter is so short; it's the first half of the next chapter. I'm just giving it to you now because I'm not sure when I can have the next half written.

It would mean a lot to me if you reviewed after reading this. I just don't know how I'm doing with this story.

Again, I'm so sorry this is late and short. I'll try to get the next bit up soon.

* * *

14. The Werewolf Cries

Harry stared at the creature in front of him. The servant of Voldemort and murderer hung his head and studied the dirty floor, tail dragging through the dust.

"I can't believe this," Harry said stupidly.

"I'm sorry," Shea answered.

Blood pounded in Harry's ears, and his fingers squeezed the handle of his wand. "I don't care," Harry said, and he stormed out of the room.

The hallway was almost black to his weak eyes, and Harry stopped for a moment to let them adjust. He swallowed, throat dry from the musty air and from the shock of what he had just found out.

The being he had trusted for weeks had once worked for Voldemort. The thought made him feel sick.

"Harry?"

Harry jumped. The voice, belonging to Lupin, had sounded from about two feet in front of him. He couldn't see anyone there.

"Professor Lupin?" Harry asked quietly.

"Just Remus," Lupin answered. "I'm not a professor anymore. What are you doing in the middle of the hallway?"

Harry blinked furiously, upset with the fact that he couldn't see a thing yet. "Nothing."

"Are you finished with your lessons today?" Lupin asked.

Harry scowled, fuming because no one, including Lupin, had told him about his teacher's past. He was sick of being left out of the loop on every single issue regarding himself and Voldemort. "Yes."

A hand touched Harry's arm, and he stiffened. "Can you see me?" Lupin asked. Harry started feeling more nervous and worried with the physical contact, and he stepped backwards to avoid the emotions that weren't his.

"No," Harry said shortly. He didn't appreciate the feeling of pity welling up inside of him, either.

Lupin was quiet for a moment. Then, "Let's go upstairs, shall we?"

Harry nodded wordlessly and started going to what he thought was the way toward the stairs. Instead, he bumped into the wall.

More emotion flooded into Harry from outside, and Lupin said, "Here, I'll help you."

"I don't need your help," Harry growled darkly, and he began to feel his way along the wall toward the stairs. Lupin said nothing more as they slowly went up the darkened, creaking staircase. Finally, one floor up, there was enough light from the windows for Harry to dimly make out the old steps and the doorways.

"Let's go into my room," Lupin suggested. Questions about Lupin's behavior surfaced in his mind, and he felt odd and conflicting emotions from the werewolf. He supposed the two were about to have a talk. Harry wanted more answers, and this time he was going to get them.

"Have a seat," Lupin suggested as he closed the door behind them. Harry crossed the small room and seated himself in the cushy chair next to the rotting old desk. He waited expectantly for Lupin to say something.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" Lupin asked as he sat down on the bed.

"I'm fine."

Lupin's eyebrows went up a little. "You don't seem fine."

Harry couldn't hold his silence any longer. "I would be a lot better if someone would tell me what's going on half the time."

Lupin sighed. "Did Shea tell you?"

"Yeah," Harry said, his hands shaking. "He told me he's a murderer who used to work for Voldemort."

Lupin rubbed his eyes with his hands, while Harry began his rant.

"He nearly killed Dumbledore!" Harry said. "He killed people just to have a book read to him! How can you possibly trust him now? How can you leave me in the same room with him? Why didn't anyone tell me? Yet again?"

"Harry," Lupin tried to say, but Harry continued angrily.

"It's okay if you don't want to let me come on Order missions, it's okay if you don't tell me the entire history of the war and everyone involved, but I think things like this are kind of important!" Harry berated him. "I want to know what you're planning, and the past occupation of the person I'm alone with for eight hours a day!"

Lupin looked at him wearily. "Are you done?"

Harry stared. "I don't know, am I?"

"Yes, you are," Lupin said sternly. "This is a hard time for you right now. It's even harder for you than it was for your other self, I think. But you need to learn how to fight, and you need to learn how to control your new abilities. Shea isn't on Voldemort's side anymore, and he knows more about what's happening to you than anyone else."

"How do you know he's not working for Voldemort?" Harry spat. "Ron and I died! I'm a freak like him now!"

"The last thing Voldemort wants is for you to have necromancer abilities on top of your normal ones, Harry—"

"What about Ron, then?" Harry knew he was just ranting now, but the death of his best friend, even an altered version, was still a heavy matter in his mind.

"Hermione was there for the whole thing," Lupin countered. "It won't do to blame people for what happened."

Harry shook his head, too upset for words now. He hated this future, he hated what had happened to him, and he wanted more than anything to return to his own time and his normal life. What used to pass for his normal life, anyway. Anything was better than this.

"All right," Harry said. The room seemed to have gotten darker, which he didn't appreciate. "I'm done blaming people."

"Good."

"I want to know what's happened in the past three years, though," Harry added.

Even though he could barely see, he could still make out the awkward expression on Lupin's face. "Three years is a long time, Harry," he said. "What do you want to know?"

"First, I want to know what happened to Dumbledore," Harry said.

"He's dead," Lupin said emotionlessly, although Harry suddenly felt very sad and scared. He struggled with the sensations for a few seconds before giving in. He thought his own response had been more shock than fear or sadness, but it was hard to tell.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

Lupin seemed to argue with himself for a moment. But he gave in. "Snape killed him."

This time, Harry knew the anger that made him stand and flip his chair over was his own. "Snape? And what happened to him? Is that why I haven't seen him, he went back to Voldemort?"

Lupin shook his head. "No. You killed him."

Harry blinked. "What?" he said blankly.

"You killed him. Avada Kedavra. On the Hogwarts grounds," Lupin said. He dragged out the short sentences as if he regretted every spoken syllable.

Harry didn't know how to respond to this. It made him a murderer like Shea…but he wasn't exactly upset to hear this news. He had never known for sure which side Snape was on, and the Potions Master was always a threat in his mind. And he, Harry, had dealt with it.

Not knowing how he felt about this development was almost as worrisome as the fact that his older self was a murderer.

Harry reached down and picked up his chair. Seating himself calmly, he asked, "What else has happened?"

Lupin wiped away a tear and began to tell him.


	15. Catfights

I hate authors who don't update. Don't you?

**Chapter 15: Catfights**

Harry caressed the fine wood of his old four poster bed, knuckles brushing the velvet curtains. He never thought about this place. Now memories excited by context cues swarmed him, and he stood by the left corner of his bed, staring at the inviting blankets and running his fingers along the smooth wood.

Harry stood there for some time, until loud emotions and even louder footsteps and voices sounded from outside. It was Ron, Dean, Seamus, and Neville, all at once, joking with each other and content after the feast. Harry fought the urge to dive under the bed as a cat, instead tossing himself onto the red comforter, shutting his curtains and going still.

"Harry? Are you in here?" Ron inquired, before one of the other boys shushed him, probably seeing the drawn curtains. Harry waited as their conversation hushed and came to an end, listening for four beds to creak and their blankets to rustle as each boy settled in for the night. Gradually snores filled the room, from Ron's open-mouthed cacophony to Neville's tiny "shew, shew" breaths.

Harry supposed he ought to stay in one place and try to get some sleep, but old habits called. Besides, he'd had more than enough sleep ever since arriving in the past. He consulted his watch. If he left now, he'd have a whole ten hours before he had to return to the dormitory. The desire to think in the quiet of the sleeping castle overcame the inkling to behave on his first night back, and he morphed into his black cat form once again. It was by far the best way to get around Hogwarts, Harry reflected as he nudged the door open further with his nose and a paw. Cats couldn't get detention.

He trotted down the corridors, stones cool against his paws as he made his way in silence to the library. He kept alert for anomalous sounds or emotions around him, but he hissed in surprise when he found himself face to furry face with Mrs. Norris. The other cat sniffed, whiskers twitching, eyes flashing. Harry hissed and let his eyes glow bright silver-white. Mrs. Norris scampered off with a frightened yowl. Feeling disproportionately pleased with himself, Harry continued without incident to the sanctuary of the library shelves and cushy chairs.

Except it wasn't a sanctuary. He slowed as he entered, sniffing the air. He felt someone frantic, someone searching for something with little success. Harry considered leaving, wishing only for a window ledge to curl up on if he couldn't have a book, but curiosity pulled him in. Something about Hogwarts made him a troublesome teenager again, he mused. He pawed along, scanning each row of books. Finally, the rough turn of a page perked his ears. He turned left down a row, following the flipping pages.

He saw the foot first; a black loafer tapping the ground like a fiddler's metronome. Harry looked from behind the shelf, gaze going up the pant leg and the robes draped awkwardly over the chair, past the tabletop to the green and silver tie and then to the pale face….

Harry's tail resumed its usual sway. It was Draco Malfoy, one of his closest friends in the future. He sat and stared, wondering what the young Slytherin was doing here. Obviously no students had homework yet, so what extracurricular activity was he pursuing? Harry peered at the titles of the books stacked high on the table: _Poisons for Your Friends and Enemies, Poison Your Poisson, How to Get Rid of Someone You Hate and Not Get Caught_….

Oh, right. It was that year.

_Harry fell back against the tower wall, rigid and immobile, unable to move or speak. Dumbledore had wordlessly immobilized him, forcing him to watch and not take part in the nightmare before them. Why he chose to eliminate his ally at that time would continue to puzzle Harry for years…he knew it could have gone differently…_

_Draco stormed in, disarmed the Headmaster, and couldn't do anything else. Draco gradually revealed all his plots of the year to the weak old man, who, even in a drugged idiocy, could extract information from anyone. _

_Then the Death Eaters came, all half mad, all pure evil, taunting Draco, who just couldn't do it. He pointed his wand at Dumbledore, quivering, no words forming on his tongue, his hand shaking so badly that he sometimes aimed at Harry, unseen and unmoving, rather than Dumbledore. Harry tried to remember what Shea said about getting out of the Full Body-Bind, but just couldn't do it…he was too frantic…_

_The taunts and jeers rose to a crescendo until Snape entered. The others looked to him almost as an authority figure, and they hushed, one of them telling him how Draco was getting cold feet…_

"_Severus…"_

_Dumbledore, pleading. Piteous, pathetic pleading. At the time Harry thought he was begging for his life. Now he knew he was begging Snape to end it. So Draco wouldn't have to._

"_Severus…please…."_

_Snape's face was a picture of hatred as he said the words. _

_Harry was after them the moment the spell released him. He threw himself down the stairs, knocking over two Death Eaters like dominoes. He hopped over them, heard their groans and shouts behind him, and kept running, tears hot in his nearly blind eyes. Snape didn't have a chance…._

_He found out later what an idiot he'd been…story of Harry's life… _

Here, Harry now had a golden opportunity to set many things right. Draco could be saved from a year in the shadow of his father and Voldemort. Dumbledore wouldn't have to die. And Snape didn't have to die, either, as Harry didn't plan on killing him this time. He knew how all of this happened and how all of it could be avoided. But how to start with Draco?

Harry closed his slitted eyes and turned back into himself. He blinked several times, dizzy at the new height and suddenly quite blind in the dark. He took a moment to collect himself, waiting on his weak eyes to adjust to the dim light from Draco's wand and the sliver of moon coming through the window. Satisfied, he stepped out from behind the shelf.

"Bit early for homework, isn't it?" Harry asked.

Draco held a surprised scream inside admirably, hands gripping the sides of a fat tome as he hunched over, nearly falling out of his wooden chair. Shock swiftly turned into a sneer. "So it's true, is it, Potter? You're freakier than before now?"

Harry leaned against the flat wooden end of the shelf, noting that his reaction time to retake control of the situation almost rivaled that of the future Draco. Already, he would be an excellent spy. "Interesting reading for the first night back."

"Do I need to remind you that I'm a prefect and you are not?" Draco said, his wand dipping below the table. Harry didn't bother to reach for his in his pocket.

"What, you'll report me?" Harry drawled back.

Draco, seeing that Harry wasn't impressed with the threat of detention, visibly struggled to think of a comeback. "Get out of my sight, Potter, I have work to do," he snapped.

Harry continued to glance idly at the book covers strewn along his future friend's table. "Maybe I can help you with it."

"Maybe you can piss off because this doesn't concern you," Draco hissed.

Harry dodged the purple jet of light from beneath the table with ease, twirled to the front of the table and whisked Draco's wand into his grasp with a wandless _Expelliarmus_. He slammed both hands down, leaning into Draco's face, the blond's wand beneath his unmoving fingers.

"I think it does," Harry whispered back, glowing eyes unblinking. Draco leaned back as far as he could in his chair without tipping backward. "I know what you've been asked to do. I know who asked you. And I also know that you don't have the guts to do it."

"Who's in here?"

Harry bolted, leaving a dumbfounded Draco behind him. Filch ruins everything, he mused as he shrank back into a cat behind a tall armchair.

"Just me, sir," Draco said, tone haughty and dismissive as he addressed the old Squib. His emotions screamed confusion and fear, but his voice was cool and trained. Harry approved.

"Who were you talking to?" Filch growled. The library snuffed their voices to a whisper, but Harry could make the conversation out with his feline hearing.

"No one." Harry supposed the Slytherin wasn't about to tell the caretaker that Harry Potter had been there moments before only to disappear into the shadows, and that was why he wasn't giving up Harry's presence. Or maybe he had actually gotten through to him.

"But there was talking," Filch said. "I heard it!"

Draco snorted. "Can't a student read aloud anymore?"

"What are you doing in here so late?" Filch demanded after a pause, determined to find something amiss and issue punishment.

"Getting a head start on Potions, sir," Draco said. Filch let out a sound between a cough and a sigh.

"I'm sure you are, young Malfoy," Filch said, and Harry heard footsteps retreat to the library entrance. "I'm sure you are."

Harry waited a few minutes, ears perked, head cocked to the side. He knew Filch, and Filch knew students. Troublemaking gone quiet usually reemerges the moment the adult leaves. He peered around the leather chair to check on Draco. The blond's fingers shook, but he continued to flip page after page of possible poisons, looking up every few seconds for either Filch or Harry.

When he heard Filch enter and leave once more, Harry sauntered over to the table creaking under the many books, keeping close to the shelves. Safely behind Draco, he transformed yet again.

"You also didn't have the guts to say no," Harry breathed in his ear, continuing where he left off. Draco flinched, but to his great credit did not jump or spin around in shock. He merely gripped his wand, ready.

"What do you want, Potter?" Draco sighed, as if Harry were a mild irritant rather than a creepy necromancer who knew his secrets.

"To help you," Harry said, seating himself on top of the table, somewhat facing Draco.

The Slytherin crossed his arms, leaning back to see Harry's face better. "With what, exactly?"

"Saying no."

Draco seemed lost for a moment, before he recovered swiftly again. "And how did you find out about my situation?"

Harry paused. That was a good question. When he was in sixth year, he knew Draco was up to something, but he could never piece together exactly what. He couldn't really say that he was from the future…at least not yet. There was hope for Draco.

"I'm just good at figuring things out," he said.

Draco's sneer was real this time. "Liar."

"Whatever," Harry said, inspecting his nails. "Fact is, it's your job to murder Dumbledore, and I figure it's my job to make sure that doesn't happen."

"Pathetic Golden Boy."

"Come on, Draco," Harry said, exasperated already. He stared the scowling blond down. "You don't want to. I know you don't."

"You don't know anything," Draco spat.

Harry raised an eyebrow, inviting him to say more. Nothing more came.

"It's your dad more than Voldemort, isn't it?" Harry asked.

Silence.

"I guess they're both kind of scary," Harry offered.

"I don't know what game you're playing at," Draco breathed, "but it ends now."

"No games," Harry said, raising his hands. "I'm just saying you don't have to be forced into this."

"No one forces me to do anything," Draco said, but the drive behind his voice was gone.

"You don't…" Harry sighed. He kept forgetting this Draco wasn't his friend yet, kept forgetting that they hadn't been through horror after horror together yet. "Draco, I'm not your enemy. I'm done with that stupid kid rivalry from first year. I know you need help, and I'm offering it."

Draco stared at his hands. Harry hopped off of the table. "I'll be here most nights. Think about it."

He turned to leave, going slowly in case the blond decided to say anything. He didn't.

Harry stalked the halls a few minutes later, a silent black cat, unsatisfied with his encounter in the library. For whatever reason, he actually missed Draco's company. He supposed it was the one relationship between the present and past that was completely different. Going back in time, his friends Ron and Hermione were just happier versions of their future selves, and his professors were similar cases. So seeing someone who was supposed to be a close confident (as close as Harry would allow, anyway) and being forced to remember that they were once enemies was…difficult.

A grandfather clock in the hall tolled eleven o'clock. Harry continued past it, heading up. He wanted a window ledge with a view.


	16. Disappearing Light

**Author's note:** Thank you for the fantastic reviews, everyone. You guys rock. That may have been the best batch of reviews I've ever received, they were all well-thought out and insightful. I really appreciate that.

Three things: One, I'm officially changing the format of the story. Steve's Place and many others have reported difficulty keeping track of which timeline is which as I switch between them. So from now on, the chapters will alternate between the two…chapter 15 was Older Harry's point of view, so this chapter is from Younger Harry's point of view, and that will continue. Sorry if you're really into one timeline more than another, I guess you'll have to wait longer to hear how your favourite Harry is doing. But this will be neater, I think.

Two, if I ever again go without posting for ten months, check my userpage for my feeble excuses. I did update that once in a while whenever I felt guilty. I apologise for the horrendous wait.

Three, I shouldn't have stopped writing chapter 14 where I did, so this chapter will begin with dialogue from "The Werewolf Cries," with some edits. Okay. I think that's all…Enjoy!

Chapter 16: **Disappearing Light**

"I want to know what's happened in the past three years," Harry said.

Even though he could barely see, he could still make out the awkward expression on Lupin's face. "Three years is a long time, Harry," he said. "What do you want to know?"

"First, I want to know what happened to Dumbledore," Harry said.

"He's dead," Lupin said, voice flat. Harry suddenly felt very sad and scared. He struggled with the sensations for a few seconds before giving in to the confusion. He thought his own response had been more shock than fear or sadness, but it was hard to tell anymore.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

Lupin seemed to argue with himself for a moment. "Snape killed him."

This time, Harry knew the anger that made him stand and flip his chair over was his own. "Snape? And what happened to him? Is that why I haven't seen him, he went back to Voldemort?"

Lupin shook his head. "No. You killed him."

Harry blinked. "What?" he said blankly.

"You killed him. Avada Kedavra. On the Hogwarts grounds," Lupin said. He dragged out the short sentences as if he regretted every spoken syllable.

Harry didn't know how to respond to this. It made him a murderer like Shea…but he wasn't exactly upset to hear this news. He had never known for sure which side Snape was on, and the Potions Master was always a threat in his mind. And he, Harry, had dealt with it.

Not knowing how he felt about this development was almost as worrisome as the fact that his older self was a murderer.

Harry reached down and picked up his chair. Seating himself calmly, he asked, "What else has happened?"

Lupin wiped away a tear, shielding his face from Harry's near-sightless eyes with an anguished hand. Harry tapped his fingers against his knees, unwilling to rush the werewolf. Part of him found it odd that Lupin would hide his face when so much more was available to Harry with the strange empathy. He felt his own eyes watering, felt the tightness in his chest, felt the tension right behind his eyes that Lupin, he assumed, felt. He tried to focus on something else like Shea had instructed….but the sharp betrayal involved with the necromancer disparaged him and he had to do his best to accept the outside emotion.

"After that night…." Lupin trailed off and didn't speak for so long that Harry thought he wasn't going to tell him anything. But he continued, "After that night, a lot changed. Minerva was the new head of Hogwarts, and of the Order. We lost our spy, and other attempts at getting information didn't end well, so we lost track of Voldemort for a bit."

"Wait," Harry interrupted. "Your spy? You don't mean….Snape?"

Lupin nodded.

"Which side was he on?" Harry asked, confused.

"Ours, Harry. He always was, after coming back to Dumbledore all those years ago."

Harry grew cold. His breath stopped in his throat. "Then why did he kill Dumbledore?" he managed to ask.

"To protect Draco Malfoy…." Lupin shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not explaining anything very well. Draco was ordered to kill Dumbledore during your sixth year. Snape protected him from Voldemort—and his father—by killing Dumbledore so the task was over with, so no attention had to be on Draco for not being able to do it."

"Snape was good," Harry said thickly. He had never been sure. He knew that he spied for the Order, but he had never been able to shake the feeling that he was a double agent working more for Voldemort than for the Order…. Hearing that his older self had killed the ex-Death Eater had momentarily filled him with justification for all his hatred over the years, and told him definitively that he had been on the wrong side…. Having this revelation swept away for another, more troubling one made Harry want to throw up.

"He was good," Lupin agreed, watching Harry.

"And my older self killed him," Harry said.

"The whole Order thought you—he was right to do so at first," Lupin said, stumbling over which Harry he meant again. "The truth didn't come out for a few days…Draco had to return to his father's manor after the fight, and so he didn't explain anything to anyone for a while."

"I'll bet the other Harry didn't even care," Harry said bitterly after a moment.

"The other Harry didn't care about Snape?" Lupin repeated to clarify. He sat back in his seat, shaking his head. "Oh, Harry. Is that what you think of the other you?"

"He didn't care about Sirius," Harry said by way of explanation.

Lupin drew a deep breath. "He was…withdrawn after we all found out. He had been more emotional than usual all year, understandable with the changes in his powers and body—which you're now going through," Lupin said unnecessarily. "But after Snape…it was the first time he had killed. He didn't talk to anyone for weeks, he could barely look anyone in the eye. That uncaring person you met has trained himself to stop caring."

Harry stared at his hands.

"I do try to talk to him," Lupin said, more to himself than to the younger version of the troubled man he of whom he spoke. "Most people gave up…Ron and Hermione…."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Withdrawing isn't the best coping mechanism," Lupin continued. "But at least he copes."

The room seemed to grow darker yet. Harry wondered if it was like Shea said—negative emotions made his eyes even weaker. He swallowed. "Who else has died?"

"It's a long list."

"Just people I would have known, then," Harry said.

"Still a long list," Lupin said. "But…from your friends…Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley…."

"How did they die?"

"Harry…."

"Tell me."

"Neville and Ginny were killed by Death Eaters last year," Lupin said heavily. Harry listened, Lupin's voice now coming from somewhere in total darkness. "And Luna just disappeared. No one ever figured out what happened to her."

"Sounds like Luna," Harry said calmly. Inside he was screaming.

"Yeah…well in character," Lupin agreed.

"I wanted to kill myself a few weeks ago," Harry said suddenly, looking up to where he hoped Lupin was sitting. "I wanted it. Then I was thrown into all of this…everyone I know is dying around me, good people…and then people like me get to live. It's not fair."

"No, it's not."

"And why couldn't Shea save any of them?" Harry demanded.

"I can't save everyone."

Harry gritted his teeth and gripped the sides of his chair in shaking hands. He hoped the power of his anger made the other, uninvited necromancer ill. He was disappointed.

"It's like I told Mrs. Weasley," Shea said. Harry heard him tread across the creaking wood floor toward them. "The body has to be fully intact for me to resurrect people. I'll teach you how to raise the dead tomorrow, you'll see what I mean."

"I don't want you to teach me anything."

"Harry," Lupin said, his disapproving tone taking away some of the vindictive pleasure Harry gained in making Shea take a step back. "Snape was not the only one to return to our side. And Shea wasn't even a Death Eater."

"Are you mad at me because of the things I did before you were born or because I can't save everyone?" Shea asked.

Harry looked over, frowning; the meek creature was never so forward. "Both."

"I was seventeen," Shea said, voice short. "Very few people have things figured out at seventeen. And asking why I can't save everyone is like asking why I'm not God."

Near silence rang after this statement. The house creaked; footsteps sounded from below and around the stairs. Harry let out a deep breath. "Fine," he said. He wanted to say more, but nothing else came.

"Good," Lupin said, clapping his hands together. "So you two will continue lessons?"

"It's not like I have anything else to do," Harry said, still bitter. "I'm even more useless to the Order now."

"Not for long," Shea said quietly.

Light slowly returned to Harry's eyes. He blinked, keeping them mostly shut.

"Do you think he's ready to go on missions?" Lupin asked. Surprise radiated from him.

"Oh, no," Shea said, and Harry's heart sank. "Maybe in another few months."

Another few months locked in a dark, dank house with a pathetic murderer, weepy witches and hardened wizards, killers and liars all. An insane feeling of homesickness washed over Harry then—he missed his real friends, Ron and Hermione, the twins, Ginny, Neville, even Luna and his dormmates...he was supposed to be in school by now, with Quidditch and maybe even Dumbledore's Army...

"I can't stay here for another few months," Harry said.

He could almost see Lupin and Shea look at each other through the dim slits of his eyes. "You can't exactly go anywhere else," Lupin said after an awkward, too long silence.

"I don't—" Harry took a breath. "If I could just go outside once in a while."

"We'll do that tomorrow night," Shea said. "Full moon."

Harry looked to Lupin. "Is it really?"

Lupin nodded, weary. "I'm leaving tonight and I'll be back in two days."

Harry wanted to press where he was going, but guilt over yelling at his two mentors for so long held him back. He spoke to Shea instead, "Why is the full moon important to us?"

"It's easiest to raise the dead then. I figured it would be best to start tomorrow."

Harry nodded, unsure how he felt about that. He was unsure how he felt about everything lately.

"The Order meeting is about to start," Lupin said quietly. "Is there anything else you wanted to know, Harry?"

Harry hesitated. A few more blanks had been filled in. Now the absence of Ginny in the house stung more than it puzzled, but at least he knew. He held his head when he realized the same could be said of Snape. And Shea's background made him even creepier than before, but...again, at least he knew.

"I guess I'll ask questions as they come up," Harry said, shrugging.

Lupin stood, touching a hand to Harry's shoulder. "And I will answer them. Come on."

The three of them descended toward the kitchen, Lupin a stair ahead of Harry in case he needed help down. Harry hated being almost blind, but he hated other people helping him with it even more. He held the railing in his left hand, squinting through the gloom to see when he needed to turn onto a landing or a new floor.

Several Order members were already there when they sat down at the long kitchen table, covered as usual in maps and plans and minutes from meetings. Harry blinked; suddenly, around all these people, his sight almost returned to something resembling his vision without glasses—terrible, but something to take in the world. Fred and George sat across the table from each other, holding one of their nonverbal conversations. Kingsley Shacklebolt stared at a brick in the wall. Draco Malfoy tucked into dinner early, shoveling soup down his throat, stopping only to adjust a bloody bandage around his forehead. Mrs. Weasley hovered around him with the pot of soup and a ladle, refilling his bowl with almost every sip he took.

"Are you okay, Draco?" Lupin asked the blond.

"Alive," he responded, focused on his steaming meal. Harry wondered where he'd been over the past few days. He supposed they were about to find out.

"Who are we expecting tonight?" Lupin asked, looking between Shacklebolt and Mrs. Weasley.

"Hermione is upstairs, I think, with Minerva," Mrs. Weasley said, stowing the pot of soup on the stove and covering it with a clang. She sat down across from Draco and watched him eat. Something still seemed off about Mrs. Weasley mothering the Slytherin as much or more than Harry had ever seen her do with her own children...but of course, much had changed. "And Tonks should be here soon."

On cue, something crashed in the hallway, followed by a loud, "Sorry!"

Fred and George chuckled as Tonks came in, running a hand through her short pink hair. "It's a good thing Harry and Shea got that picture off the wall last year," Fred joked.

"Yeah, otherwise Voldemort would have found us ages ago," George snickered.

"Hush, boys," Mrs. Weasley said, a hand over her eyes. "It's best not to joke about such things."

"Better than crying," Fred sniffed. George shook his head, and Fred went quiet, staring at the table.

"Small group today," Tonks commented as she plopped next to Lupin. Harry frowned; he could have sworn the two of them had just squeezed hands. He looked back up. "Where is everyone?"

"Lots of missions, lots of locations," Shacklebolt said, speaking for the first time. He didn't say anything else.

The group went quiet, except for the clink of Malfoy's spoon against his bowl and the tapping of anxious feet and fingers. Finally, Hermione walked into the warm light of the kitchen, pale and slouching. Professor McGonagall followed, seating herself at the end of the table.

"Are you well enough to speak, Malfoy?" McGonagall said. Meetings often began that way, right to business.

Harry looked over Shea's head at Malfoy. He swallowed one last mouthful of soup, then pushed his bowl away, crossing his arms on the table.

"Yes, Professor," he answered. Weariness dripped from his words like arrogance once did. "I apologise for my lateness. I've just been with the Dark Lord. He wanted me to help with his newest potion...promising me a share should it work, of course," Malfoy said, and a hint of his old sneer returned.

"So what is this potion?" McGonagall asked.

"Like I thought, it's just another version of an Elixir of Life," Malfoy said. "He's obsessed, so much he has three of us working on it for him. It's the first time I've been allowed into his private castle in Scotland, he has an entire apothecary hidden there."

"Very good, Draco," Shacklebolt murmured.

"You'll draw us the plans, of course?" McGonagall said.

Draco pointed to one of the scrolls in the middle of the table. "I'm working on it."

"Why does he need yet more protection?" Harry asked. "I thought he was completely immortal now."

"I was getting to that, Potter," Malfoy spat. Harry glared back, but Malfoy was looking to McGonagall again. "I've also prepared my notes on the potion for our references. I would appreciate help from Granger in making it work so he doesn't kill me."

"But we don't want it to work!" Harry objected, confused.

"Obviously not all the way, Harry," Hermione said from his right, speaking for the first time. "But Voldemort has forced Draco to make potions before. We need to work out a plan to make it appear like progress is made incrementally. Luckily, lots of Dark potions take many years to finish brewing, so when it reaches that point Draco will be safe."

Harry nodded, deciding to stay quiet for the rest of the time if he could.

"Thank you," Malfoy inclined his head toward her. "I found something very interesting at the castle. Or someone, rather."

"Who?" McGonagall asked sharply.

Malfoy smiled thinly. "It turns out that Voldemort's obsession with the new potion comes from a newfound fear of dying. His certain death has been predicted by one of Trelawney's star pupils," he said. "He has Luna Lovegood."

Harry's heart quickened. One of his friends was still alive. He wasn't the only one shocked and elated; several jaws dropped around the table, and tears appeared in most eyes. Emotion swelled into his brain, and he had to close his eyes and grip his temples.

"How do you know?" Lupin asked, hushed. "Did you see her?"

"Heard her," Malfoy corrected. "She was in a locked room upstairs. I was looking for another ingredient when she started talking to me. I guess she saw me through a crack in the door...it's like she knew I wasn't on Voldemort's side," Malfoy said slowly. "Obviously I didn't speak back to her, but she kept saying things."

"Like what?" McGonagall asked.

Malfoy frowned. "She said she'd been there for over a year...and something about not always being able to See, but he won't let her go. I can put my memory in the Pensieve for clarity, I was too busy running away to listen."

"Please do," McGonagall said. She adjusted her glasses after taking them off to wipe tears away. "Luna Lovegood, a Seer….I never thought…Is that all from your journey, Malfoy?"

"Yes, Professor," Malfoy said.

The meeting moved on to Tonks's account of her week among a Dark faction in Wales, but Harry was left behind with Luna in a cold, nameless fortress in the far north. He had no idea that she might have been a Seer, but looking back it was obvious. And now she was imprisoned for it. Harry held his head in his hands, pretending he was still in pain from everyone else's emotions to hide his own tears of frustration. He had to save her.


	17. Shadow of the Old Life

A/N: Last chapter was from Young Harry's point of view, so this is from Old Harry's point of view. I truly feel I'm writing two stories at once now, almost like I should have them split for real. Is that a good idea or not?

This is the chapter when I begin to both use and ignore HBP. Ask in reviews or PMs if things are confusing.

Check out my userpage for fanart by Eddy.

**Chapter 17: Shadow of the Old Life**

Harry chewed his toast absently, staring at his schedule from Professor McGonagall. All along the Gryffindor table, other students were staring, too; either at their own schedules for the year or at him. What with the papers declaring him "the Chosen One," the rumours from the end of his fifth year, and his "new" appearance, open-mouthed gapes reigned with good reason. Still, he noted as he sipped his pumpkin juice to disguise a look around, he hoped Hogwarts students had something better to do besides stare and gossip about him all day.

Next to him, Ron raved about the openness of their new schedule, made possible by the absence of classes such as Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. Harry wondered why those new classes had been tacked onto the curriculum in third year if most students dropped them after O.W.L.s anyway. Probably the ineptitude of the current decision-makers mixed with unwillingness to budge traditions.

If only this Ministry would wake up…young witches and wizards needed to be trained much faster than the current system allowed. Harry didn't regret a second of teaching Dumbledore's Army his fifth year; those he taught stood a much better chance against the Dark Lord and his followers. Maybe he should teach it this year as well.

"Look," Ron was saying, "we've got a free period now…and a free period after break…and after lunch…excellent!"

Harry finished off his pumpkin juice. "You know how much homework we're going to get, right?"

"Great, now you're turning into Hermione on me," Ron muttered. The two headed back to the common room together, lacking anything else to do. "Can't even enjoy the feeling of freedom for five minutes."

Harry blinked. "Sorry."

They were silent until they climbed through the portrait hole into the sunny and bright common room.

"No, it's all right," Ron said, voice quiet. A few other Gryffindors milled about, sixth and seventh years, lounging on the cushy armchairs and couches. "I didn't mean anything by that, you're just really different lately."

They sat down, and Harry cast a quick Muffliato charm toward the few others in the room. "I know," he said. This conversation with Ron was long overdue. Somehow they'd managed to continue as if life were completely normal…as normal as it ever got for them, anyway. "I know, and I'm sorry. I look and act like a freak and you've put up with it great."

"I wouldn't go that far—"

"I would," Harry interrupted. "I'm a bloody necromancer and I'm not sixteen anymore, I'm barely the person you knew."

"What do you mean, you're not sixteen anymore?" Ron asked, frowning. "Did Shea age you or something?"

Harry cursed himself for the slip; how could he have forgotten that Ron didn't know the full story? Luckily, Ron's explanation would work.

"Yeah, I grew a little bit," Harry said, still upset with himself. He would have to get more sleep or something to avoid more mistakes like that. "Dumbledore says I'm physically nineteen."

"Wicked," Ron said, running a hand through his hair. "So that's why you come up to my chin now."

Harry smirked and punched him in the shoulder. He looked around; a few people were picking at their ears and frowning. He would have to remove the spell soon. "We're good, right?"

Ron snorted. "Of course we're good. Don't be stupid."

Harry leaned back in his armchair, waving his hand to end the charm. "Good."

An hour later, the two made their way to their first class, Defense Against the Dark Arts. They joined Hermione in the queue outside the door. Harry tuned her out as she complained about her homework load already, trying to feel Shea's presence inside the classroom through the mess of nervous students. Predictably, he was the most nervous of all. But there was another source of nerves almost rivaling Shea…Harry scanned the queue, letting his eyes pass over Draco as if he didn't notice the staring blond. Perhaps their encounter last night had changed his mind.

"So what will Professor Quin be like, Harry?" Hermione asked, breaking into his concentration.

Harry considered. "Ask a lot of questions, he forgets to mention things."

Hermione nodded, attentive as if she were already in class.

"But not today," Harry amended as a thrill of nerves that was not his own rushed through his mind. "He probably has the whole lecture memorized today."

"You certainly know him well after just a month of training with him," Hermione observed.

Another slip. Harry grimaced inside. If anyone could piece everything together and ruin things, it was Hermione. He shrugged in response.

Fortunately, Harry was saved from further questioning by the opening of the classroom door. Harry knew his classmates had all seen Shea at the start of term feast, but that exposure didn't smooth any reactions over. Most students stiffened and went quiet; a few looked between Harry and the tiny necromancer, noticing the eyes.

"Please come in," Shea said, shuffling backward through the door under the stares. The Gryffindors and Slytherins filed in, looking around. The classroom changed character every year, but this year it didn't look like a wizarding classroom at all. Shea had scattered Muggle science posters around the walls, such as the periodic table and a history of modern physics. The short, silver-eyed professor wouldn't teach them any science, Harry knew; he just hoped they might look at the posters and learn something on their own, since "…it's all related, science and magic."

Harry seated himself in the front next to Hermione. They had the front row to themselves. Harry turned in his chair to see what the class was doing; they simply stared at the bizarre instructor, desks clear, hands hovering by their bags as they wondered what they would need. Umbridge's "wands away" routine was still fresh in their memories. Harry turned back around to see Shea shuffling papers at his desk.

"I'm Professor Quin," Shea said, walking to the front of the classroom with a stack of papers in his arms. The papers were shaking. "As some of you have noticed, I am a necromancer."

Harry fought the urge to grasp at his heart as tension in the classroom skyrocketed.

"But I promise you I'm not a Dark creature or anything like that," Shea said. The class shifted in their seats. "If you look up the history of raising the dead, not the myths, you'll find that it's about healing. Not killing or hurting anyone." He looked up from his papers, scanning the room. "I hope that clears things up a bit…I don't think this class will be effective if everyone is afraid of me."

Harry didn't think that little speech helped at all. He could hear Neville breathing from four rows away.

"Right," Shea said, aware that his class was still terrified, "let's move on. I know that last year you didn't learn anything…and the year before that you had a Death Eater for a teacher…in fact, you've only had one good professor in five years of school…so I thought I would have a sort of diagnostic test, to see which material I should cover." He walked across the room, giving the frontmost students a pile of tests to pass on behind them. "This isn't for credit, but please answer all the questions as best as you can. If some students are behind the rest of the class, I'll organize some extra lessons for catch up. I'll collect these in half an hour."

Harry smirked as Shea sat down at his desk. He knew he only added the bit about extra lessons so everyone would try to do well. He pulled a quill and ink from his bag, pushed his glasses up his nose, and glanced down at the test.

Yet another concern that Harry hadn't considered wrapped itself around his stomach. He had assumed that he would just ace all of his younger self's classes for him and use time in class to think and read other things. But what if classes actually took up time? What if he couldn't stand the boredom? Was it worth disturbing the timeline in order to escape being sixteen again?

He finished the test in five minutes and pushed it away, earning himself a thin-lipped glare from Hermione. Reviewing skills might not be a bad idea. He would see how the rest of the day panned out before making a decision.

After Shea collected the tests, he treated the class to a brief lecture on the theory behind nonverbal spells, rehearsed as Harry suspected, complete with the occasional mixing up of lines. Homework was to choose a nonverbal spell to research and present in two classes.

"I don't know," Hermione said as the three friends headed down a corridor toward the Great Hall for lunch. "It was nice to have a professor who cares about what we've learned already-"

"But should someone that scared of a room of students be teaching defense?" Ron broke in.

"Exactly what I was thinking," Hermione said. "It was like being taught by a six year old."

"Actually," Ron said, adjusting his worn bag over his shoulder, "he reminded me of Quirrell. All the stuttering and shaking."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione said. She nudged Harry's elbow. "What do you think?"

Harry had been staring at the stone floor as they walked. He looked up. "He knows a lot. He's experienced. That's why you like me as a teacher, right?"

"Well, yes," Hermione said. They took seats near the end of the table. "But at least you sound like you've been in a fight."

Ron laughed through the sandwich already in his mouth.

Hermione eyed him coolly before returning her gaze to Harry. "I'll trust your judgment on this, but for now I don't feel confident in that class."

Harry shrugged and downed a glass of milk. This hadn't been the best lesson ever, but it would pick up. He didn't want to press the issue when Hermione would likely be satisfied with lessons in a week or so. He also didn't want to reveal more about the necromancer than was required.

After lunch, all three spent a quiet hour flipping through their new spellbooks for Shea's assignment in the common room before heading to Potions. Harry remembered how vindictive the Potions Master had been at the start of term in the past. Being passed over once again for Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, especially for Shea, combined with extra stress from spying close to every night made Snape an even more unpleasant individual than usual.

"Wonder how hard Snape's NEWT class will be," Ron said as they descended another staircase.

"Hard," Harry said.

"I'll bet he's busy lately, too," Hermione said quietly. "What with the Order and everything."

"Good thing Neville isn't taking this class anymore," Ron muttered.

The door to the dungeon classroom was open when they arrived. They took their usual seats, murmuring hello's to their few classmates. Draco walked in looking flushed. He flushed even more when Harry nodded to him in greeting, and sat down hastily.

Snape entered and the minimal chatter died. His cold black eyes scanned the small class. "Now that the class has been pruned of imbeciles, I expect far better performance than ever before. Turn to page 645 and begin. Your potion is to be turned in at the end of class."

Ron muttered something under his breath that Harry didn't catch over the sound of frantic page flipping. Harry hid a smile and found the page. His internal smile vanished. Blood-replenishing potion.

He looked up at Snape, who eyed him with his arms crossed over his chest. Snape smirked.

"How mature," Harry said.

Snape's smirk remained. "What was that, Potter?"

Harry shook his head. Ron and Hermione stared openmouthed at him. "Never mind, sir."

Snape sniffed and sat down behind his desk, picking up a book to read. Harry didn't remember blood-replenishing potion being on the agenda for the first day of term last time around. Snape was baiting him, throwing him back to his attempted suicide for whatever sick reason. Harry couldn't do or say anything, however. It was a valid and useful NEWT-level potion.

As he crushed ginger with fly wings at his table, he vowed to talk to Dumbledore and work out a plan, even if it involved doing exactly what the old wizard wanted. No way could he waste his time with classes this year.


	18. An overdue explanation

I logged into my "fanfiction email" a moment ago and was both shocked and touched to see how many reviews and alerts I receive on this story, even though I haven't updated in two years. I feel very lucky to have such a readership. I also feel awful for not updating in two years. Here is my thin attempt at an explanation.

I love this story. It has a lot of unique things going for it. But the negative things (which my perceptive reviewers point out and I completely agree with) overpower it for me. Upon rereading I have to laugh at my high school self (much like Old Harry, really) for coming up with all that teenaged torment.

So I want to finish this, but I can't add on to the pile of steaming high school angst. A couple of times I've sat down to write a new chapter and found that I couldn't, not with the previous plotlines to tie up that I'd prefer didn't exist. When I do finish this, it will mean rewriting lots and lots of it first.

I'll keep this version up of course, because clearly people still enjoy it, but when I have the time and the drive to redo this story I will, and I'll repost it as a new story. I'll let you know here when that happens and point you to it.

When will that happen? Honestly, I don't know. Probably when I want to throw all my original novel characters out of their ship's airlock and spend more time with good old HP. That could be next month, it could be in another two years. I can't promise anything.

Thanks again for all your reading and support. I don't think I'm overstating things to say that writing this story in high school and receiving your feedback made me a better writer today. That's why I love fanfiction and defend it whenever people say it's a waste of time—it makes better writers of us all.

-astropixie


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